Long Roots Poems
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As a kid I saw adults live for the booze,
as though it must be done,
not a freedom you choose.
Socialise with alcohol,
all will reach a good mood,
and I found it funny as the drink made them rude.
Everything seemed to end with a drink or two,
All through my youth it's what all adults do,
So as I reached adulthood, I did it too,
I did it because it was something I knew.
I thought social events had drink at their roots,
everyone drinks 'til they don't give a hoot,
then you can behave any which way that suits,
as a kid I saw jokes, as an adult fruit loops.
Drinking evoked a silliness in those blokes,
As they were adults I believed they could cope,
But when I grew up I saw backs to the ropes,
Adult heavy drinkers are emotionally broke.
But drink was apparent in their parents so they parrot,
none think it apparent the experience brings havoc,
as they add drugs, to their drinks, intoxication kills panic,
repeating the act,
now addicted through habit.
What we saw as a kid,
Is what we then do,
it loops around
and ends tragic,
It's all that we knew.
Take our mental health, And repeatedly stab it,
We should change what kids see as the way of the adult,
And hopefully they wont take their life as a result!
The suicides I have known come from what we were taught.
You have to be sober when life becomes difficult,
cause you'll handle your emotions helped by clear thought,
we must learn and not teach our kids the same fault.
*We shouldn't teach kids racism, sexism, drug dependency or alcoholism,
when we know from experience all these things cause division.
And the monk -
that graveyard instrument of bone and golden hair -
laughed like a maestro striking a black bell.
"Begin?" he said,
"As though the soul were simply a corridor,
with arrows nailed into the walls."
Outside, the trees were committing
their annual suicide into autumn,
each leaf a small, burnt scripture,
spiraling through the throat of God.
I desire instruction.
A clean, pristine wound
A staircase hammered into heaven.
Instead, he handed me silence -
that terrible animal with human eyes.
"Listen," he whispered,
and even the dust obeyed.
The room grew enormous.
The candle performed its yellow autopsy
upon the dark.
Somewhere, invisible clocks
were chewing the ankles of time.
Then, I saw it:
how the body is only a rented coat
hung briefly upon the nail of breath;
how thought is a swarm of wasps
mistaking its hive for eternity;
how beneath the skull's temple
something starved and holy
keeps beating its bruised wings
against its own bars.
I had spent years
dragging my reflection through mirrors,
calling it a vocation of life.
But the monk opened his hands
as though releasing a bluebird neither living nor dead
and the world split.
Not dramatically.
No choir caroled
No jeweled grand revelation
Only this:
the unbearable intimacy of everything.
The rain entering the roots
without assent
The moon trembling inside a puddle of oil.
My grief wearing the face of every stranger walking by.
And, suddenly,
I could not locate myself.
The self I had defended like my kingdom
was smoke stitching itself to smoke.
Even suffering -
a clever actress dragged in widow - black -
removed her makeup at dawn.
What remained?
Not happiness,
that is too small a word.
Not peace,
peace still imagines an opposite.
Rather:
a vastness without chattels,
where even God has taken off His face.
The monk touched my forehead.
His fingers smelled faintly of cedar and graves.
"You ask for a path," he murmured,
"but truth walks only through wilderness.
The river reaches the sea
precisely because
it forgets who it is."
The apostate looked out his window, and started to believe
As genuflecting pylons sent ramifications through the trees
Chaos questioned reason, hoping for an early plea
but the world was too far gone, so began the killing spree
The Crier rang his leper bell: “Our town’s a godless apparition”
Filling hearts with envy of a once-dreaded condition
Now the King prayed for calm, in a pagan act of contrition
After his son died at birth, he had proscribed all religion
Atheists came from all around, excommunication filled the air
Roots faced horizontal, trying to feed off despair
Anxious to leave town, fallen gargoyles block civic square
Steeplejacks grow disoriented, looking up at their disrepair
“That hole’s not deep enough,”winked the jester to the knave
He could never resist a shortcut, even digging his own grave
As the madness continued, hermits set fire each other’s caves
Shedding light on the void, by burning alive its willing slaves
With the apocalypse gathering pace, populations slowly died
Some genius came forward a real madman in disguise
Said, “We need a scapegoat—a martyr, an ultimate sacrifice”
He was crucified for being too clever; they much preferred no advice
And whilst writing this story, that apparently makes no sense
The queen was in her chambers, hanging herself from suspense
Children butcher themselves gaily, having learned how to fence
As for putting fear of God in us, the wicked come crawling to repent
At last when heaven reopened,
an eclipse tried darken that day
Never to see man overcast again,
sun went nova, boiling all life away…
Calling In Favors
Written: by Miracle Man
New Years Eve 2021
Do you recall the first person in life
who gave you a chance?
After you had jumped through hoops,
for a song and dance.
At eighteen I searched for a job,
two years experience everyone wanted.
Question was, which comes first,
I was made to feel daunted.
I was 18 and in a new place (San Diego California)
and a new acquaintance ask if I’d found a job, and where I’d looked.
He told me to go to Rohr Aircraft and I told him I’d already been there and they required 2 yrs recent experience. Being young, I wondered how do I get this experience without first having a job. He wrote a note on a piece of paper and sent me back to see this person. I did, and was immediately hired. This man’s name on a piece of paper was all it took. I worked there for 5 years (was a great employee) before returning to my roots. Though this man is gone now, I often think of him and his giving me my first chance. I’ve always wondered what the note said and if he was
“calling in favors.”
Tom
In my kitchen's grasp, where spices hop free,
Whispers of our memories, in each recipe.
Khichdi's humble grace, a bow to our roots,
In grains and lentils, tradition assent.
Herbal notes linger, a fragrant ballet, a scenic design.
As generations gather, in love's display.
Grandma's hands, a harmony of care,
Amma's gentle touch, flavors rare.
Papadums bloat, tales of old flames,
In every fold, history takes flight.
Black tea's warmth, with Tulsi's caress,
A sip of time, warm embrace.
Amma's pickle, a tangy delight,
Mingling with Khichdi, in consonance light.
Handpicked mangoes, memories unfold,
A dab of pickle, a story retold.
The Great Indian Kitchen's embrace, ceaseless love
Walked miles of dead end dirt road.
Can't shake this feeling
it won't leave me alone.
The breeze laughing at me through the trees,
Scent of long gone in the air.
Wisconsin born and raised,
corn growing earth running through my veins.
Stars burning holes through the night sky.
I thought I heard my mama call.
Somebody tell me
Is there life beyond this town.
I've got a wantin',
I'm sick and tired of hangin' around ,
Country living
somehow lost its charm,
I've grown restless
with life down on the farm,
I need
to feel this town behind me
I need
to go where they can't find me,
The grass is greener,
but here I'm color blind,
I had a calling
The wind sang my name on a summer's night.
I'm not burning Bridges
I'll always call this place my home
I'm just needin'
to strike out on my own
I need
to dream without a reason
I need
to be the one I pleasing
I sowed these fields
but I never planted roots
This farm's my daddy's dream
I've got gettin' in my boots.
Time to catch up with my future
Can't let another day slip by. Packed a smile in my pocket
Won't leave a memory behind
I need
to know if there's an answer
I need
to taste the sound of laughter.
I thought I heard my mama call.
“There is a mine for silver
and a place where gold is refined.
Iron is taken from the earth,
and copper is smelted from ore.
Mortals put an end to the darkness;
they search out the farthest recesses
for ore in the blackest darkness.
Far from human dwellings they cut a shaft,
In places untouched by human feet;
far from other people they dangle and sway.
The earth, from which food comes,
Is transformed below as by fire;
lapis lazuli comes from its rocks,
and its dust contains nuggets of gold.
No bird of prey knows that hidden path,
no falcon’s eye has seen it.
Proud beasts do not set foot on it,
and no lion prowls there.
People assault the flinty rock with their hands
and lay bare the roots of the mountains.
They tunnel through the rock;
their eyes see all its treasures.
They search the sources of the rivers
and bring hidden things to light.”
What story should I tell?
This is the tale of how the lonely acorn fell
far from where the mighty oak had stood
cut by the hands of man, felled for its wood.
The mother-father tree lay across the laid bare land
cut down in the forest no more to stand
and the branches stretched out along the dirt
releasing the acorn from its berth.
This acorn scratched and bruised, browned and torn
slipped into the streamflow of new rivers formed
and floated out to the open sea
she rode the tides salted and found herself - free.
The gulf stream path sped north into the wintry chill
as she cut across the sands where tidal waves were spilled
and a gull eyed her glistening shiny coat
and scooped her up but not down into her throat.
Pass the inlets, along the earthen roads
the gull dropped her beyond the manmade folds
where fertile land had long ago appeared
and squirrel and chipmunk vied for burrows cleared.
Buried deep in fertile soils blessed
this acorn was welcomed as the forest began its undress
with autumn fall and winter tamed,
she was awakened by the sun and rain.
This acorn found a place in the northeast spring
with hairy roots that began to form and sing,
of an acorn that was newly born.
escaping the outer shell coat torn.
She began to grow far from where she fell
and as life took on its hold in sapling meld
the newest oak began to watch history unfold
and knew then she was not the last acorn in the mold.
As time and historic years hurried pass
she knew she was not nor would be the last
with nature's watch and thirst
she was, the very first.
4/24/20
for John Lawless contest
The Last Acorn
Lily at the Roots
Today I walked into the lonely house of myself.
That is where my inward journey started.
The doors were heavy with cold and the dust of sorrow.
The windows were locked and rusted,
as if they had seen too many storms
and decided to shut forever.
The floor was cracked and scattered,
covered in dry autumn leaves that whispered of grief.
The walls wore black spider webs like old scars.
Muddy frames held sad paintings behind broken glass.
Worries had settled there like grey ash.
Everything felt broken, dusty and dark.
It was clear no one had come here in a long time.
I climbed the stairs.
Under my feet they felt like desert sand,
shifting and trying to pull me down.
Then in the middle of that grief-filled room
I saw it, a large beautiful tree.
It stood there like a stranger, like a quiet ghost.
Its branches were bare with no leaves,
but still its presence caught me.
I went close and touched it gently.
And it gave my soul peace.
It gave me back a piece of happiness.
At its roots grew a white lily.
The white lily, a lantern in the dark.
The white lily, hope with soft petals.
The white lily, purity learning to grow from pain.
Its scent was calmness. Its presence was healing.
That is when I understood.
This is the light inside me.
This is my courage, my strength, my growth.
Yes there is grief in me. Yes there is pain.
But my soul is still calm. Still bright. Still strong.
I am healing.
And the white lily will remain,
proof that even in a broken house
something pure can still bloom.
~ I Believe ~
(The Rhymed Anaphora)
I believe in God and love more than anything that's true
I believe in His divine love and sacrifice that too
I believe that love can make things brand-new
I believe also that much depends on you
I believe in hundreds of things that are good
I believe that many beautiful creatures dwell in the wood
I believe that love hope and peace are necessary to each man
I believe that God has for every man, woman and child a plan
I believe in goodness and kindness for all
I believe we need to stand tall after we fall.
Dorian Petersen Potter
aka ladydp2000
copyright@2012
July.24.2016
~Author's Notes:
-The Anaphora-
In writing or speech, the deliberate repetition of the first part of the sentence in order to achieve an artistic effect is known as Anaphora. The Anaphora, is possibly the oldest literary device, it has its roots in Biblical Psalms.