Long Routines Poems
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Dylan Carston was a well-off young man,
thanks to a large and health trust fund,
his father was a true Wall Street ace
and had been quite generous to his sons.
Dylan had set himself up in Miami
after years spent getting his MBA,
he did consulting four days every week,
the other three he did like to play.
He’d partied with friends at all the bars,
and had his share of hot one-night stands,
not yet had he thought of a wife and kids,
he was enjoying the life of a young man.
One Saturday as he walked down the beach
to get exercise and breath the sea air,
he stumbled upon a frantic woman
calling for him to go over there.
As he drew near he saw down in the sand
a young woman who’s face had gone blue,
he could see no lifeguard near where they were,
but fortunately he knew what to do.
He found no pulse when he listened close,
and placed two hands high on her left breast,
with hard compression he began CPR,
pumping furiously at her chest.
Every so often he placed his mouth on hers
and forced oxygen deep into her lungs,
the other woman ran off to find more help
while Dylan continued the rhythmic pump.
Finally after three desperate minutes
a gurgled rasp echoed up from her throat,
life returned to her, the blue fading out,
though her eyes still knew not where to go.
Moments later he heard the rush of feat,
the lifeguard and the woman had returned,
Dylan gestured to where the girl lay,
“I brought her back, now I think it’s your turn.”
The lifeguard thanked him for taking action,
then knelt down slowly at the victim’s side,
ambulances came, reports were fill out,
when Dylan left three hours had gone by.
He felt good about saving the woman’s life,
it was a moment he would not forget,
congratulations came in, on top of that
the lifeguards sent him a certificate.
Three weeks went by and Dylan returned to
the safe routines of the everyday world,
and bit by bit his thoughts turned away
from the near death of that helpless girl.
So it was with a great deal of surprise
when a process server told him these words:
“Dylan Carston, you’re being sued for assault,
you can consider yourself dully served.”
Dylan’s mind whirled at the accusation,
he had no idea how this could be true?
Had some ex regretted their time and cried ‘rape,’
were they evil enough to go down that route?
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
Within the glass backed walls of the squash courts, ....
Eager junior players are busy getting into their strides..
In small groups of 4 to 6, they are seeking to earn their stripes..
Religiously undergoing punishing regimes while in training...
Perfecting skills and flair to better perform beyond all these training...
Within the glass backed walls of the squash courts..
Players are wielding each a racket as an integral part of their hands..
Moving fluidly into anticipated spaces with well measured paces..
Unhurriedly and ever so confidently they execute hitting maneuvers...
One can't help but recall the phrase poetry in motion in their actions...
Within these glass backed walls of the squash courts..
Perspiration drenched players are seriously undergoing racket drills...
Moving swiftly and surely through well drilled routines without frills....
Whacking hard and fast the moving blur of a rubberised squash ball...
Confidently and effortlessly retrieving impossible shots off the wall...
Within the glass backed walls of these squash courts...
The dedicated coach is closely assisting and monitoring his players..
Eagled eyed and confident, he's getting the best out of the players..
Pushing and cajoling, occasional groans and cries of frustration and of laughter...
Help relieve the monotony in this serious business of training players to be better...
Within these glass backed walls of the squash courts..
Young players are diligently sweating blood and tears to excel further....
Endlessly going through technical drills so that their skills be better..
These endless cycles of training and stroke making drills are necessary....
For these young players are chasing living dreams of squash fame and glory...
Within the glass backed walls of the squash courts...
Kiddie dreams of glory and fame are planted in fresh young minds in earnest...
Sporting dreams are cultivated and gradually nutured into driving ambitions...
A number of such dreamers will falter never to taste the ultimate highs of glory...
But one in a while, a shining diamond of a player steps into court, to start a new story..
Within the the glass backed walls of the squash court....
A generation of champions are being groomed to hold court...
Outside the world awaits patiently, who's the next champion to step forth?
The warmth no longer comes
it seems to only leave.
The furry ones, all
caught in hypnotic disbelief:
hardening ground's
taken root
where once
gardening grounds
(forsaken, mute)
were once and again
makin' fruit.
Each beast, shaking
like a leaf
(though, truth be told
I've only ever
seen 'em dance)
as if to compel
the sun to
sidle up
'n stay a bit.
The butterflies are all turned
to windblown, drying leaves.
The biting clouds of gnats
are now
the biting cold of early flakes.
All hatched and reared
(the secret thrush, the ungainly, splashtering loon,
the burly snakes)
as evening hurries home
to be home for the night.
It's so early, so late.
The fatted robin's gone
just as the field mice hid
from barn-now-lapcat.
This constellation of crows,
a raucous perch, tried
that hiding ploy: their clotted knotted
silhouetted faux-leaf blackening hide out
where the leaves’d lived but crows are not
meant to blot the low sun as they’d plotted...
And so it was as so its been since Oh, so ever since -
a bird of prey, answered their
plaintive caws with painted claws -
a fracturous startle from above
a crash! a cry! a scattering!
one down, one murder
still.
Nothing softens, nothing greens.
No flowering as Southern urges
force flocks into making V-lines.
Each nest left: all break routines.
Summer is souring, as frost emerges
and last-one-picked, the pines -
lefties left in left field;
icing soon, their needles their shield
and, the coach never intervenes...
The light more slow to show
more tugged and bent to slant.
The sunshafts seem to push
the cold ahead as snow by plows.
And for our part we too as well
well, we turn away, turn indoors.
We turn our dreams to
make-it-through this.
We turn our collars up,
and too, our eyes to floors.
We turn our (each seems to)
thoughts inside this shell
not towards Inner but
rather, of course, truly from-
far and away from the
Cold & Falling, closing crisp.
How unlike the Scholar's Cup!
Our husks indoors,
our thoughts follow
but burrow deeper still.
Don't blame the light
for not keeping company
so deep where hides
a fearful, frigid 'you.'
It's Autumn
all turns on
one point.
It's Autumn
Fall burns on.
It's Autumn
sun burns on
one point
(of light.)
I have never felled so alive
as now.
First of all I wish to share my personal experience about my career.
Actually I am working as an educator. After my training, I found a job in one of the reputed colleges. I started working in this industry because one of my aunts worked in this industry. In her point of view, this is a very good field for youngsters to do interesting and satisfying work. Sharing what we know to others is one of the satisfying and godly things we can do to our society. This is why I chose to apply for this.
Now let’s come to the topic. As we all know, 20-30 years ago, Education was based only on teachers, libraries and books. People used to sit for hours in the library looking for the books related to their assignment works or research paper. But nowadays, everything and everyone is connected through Internet. Now we can complete the same work within a minute by surfing through the websites.
One of the great writers, ‘Ernest Agyemang Yeboah’ said - “What shapes the best in us dies when the best education dies! The best in us shall always be undermined when those that are responsible for shaping the best in us are always undermined!”
Whatever may be the skills, surely those skills will help the child later in it’s life to achieve something great.
Here we list some of the important skills which every child needs to incorporate.
Build concentration and self-discipline
Keeping yourself focused on one thing is really important, especially for students. Children grow according to some common schedules, habits, and routines only when their parents teach them. This will also help them learn control and focus on one particular thing.
Communication
It is important to develop interaction and communication between the children in everyday life and exchange ideas to develop their healthy, social and emotional skills. They should understand what to communicate and share with others. Sometimes they will need their parent’s help regarding how to share it most effectively.
Include reading habits
As we all know, reading is the best way to connect with yourself and with the world out there. As they improve their reading habit, they will be aware of words, particular situations, emotions or stories.
d respond to them, and help to solve their questions or confusions.
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I can never comply with fastidious hygiene
Try as thee most persuasive person might,
he/him, she/her,
they, them... can never wean
yours truly always objected
being told when to bathe/shower
particularly when puberty
found yours truly a tween
and my mother (deceased eighteen
plus years - sess her bowl),
she exerted authority
and told her "take a bath,
or no supper"
analogous to a queen,
strict disciplinarian to boot
who wedded her king
(my late father) at age nineteen
the latter (day saint) quite keen
nevertheless both experienced
love towards each other
and tricked out their progeny
(myself included) with halloween
getup, I vaguely recall Amelie Beth
(their eldest daughter -
older sister of mine)
donned as an angel
lighting up night sky, an empyrean
permanent heavenly fixture
popular through Byzantine
epoch, which blinded
her brother (me),
cuz yours truly, the devil in disguise.
Here I sit scores of decades
now edging closer to the edge of night,
and approaching those twilight years
remembering protesting vehemently
(way past the bewitching hour)
not wanting to wash myself
in the tub (water frigid cold), I write
how mother dearest,
whose presence I wanted to smite
this puny progeny
grappling as a neophyte
whose Lilliputian stature
(when a prepubescent)
a over five feet in height
who when constantly
teased courtesy bullies
ran back to ma mommy
whose son totally affright.
If employed in social services field, why
the above might justifiably
smack of insubordination
hashtagging me as Pigpen thereby
wharf fare prompting me
to cleanse myself diving off a Quai
in an effort for Peanuts gallery
to accept yours truly well nigh
but unfortunately
getting mistakenly captured
as a prisoner of war
forced by Japanese to construct
two parallel bridges spanning
the river Kwai
as part of Burma Railway,
also called the Death Railway,
for the many lives
lost in its construction,
but my daring do,
(and boyish good looks)
found yours truly
whisked away to the island of Hawaii,
where hula dancers
choreographed, entranced, and finessed
their seductive routines
a native lass smitten courtesy
one wily word wizard
whose courage bucked up
after munching powder milk biscuits
taken as mistress
helped beget our daughter,
who became apple of mine eye.
planned it out all along
to find my place among those doing nothing wrong
they wouldn't know it
but i have people believing we're bigger than we are
planned it all along
to come your way
and leave you holding the bag
probably will do it again
me myself and I standing alone
now you get the blame
of a simple logical equation
to find the perpetrator of such a twisted plot
whose come into your life
and dressed you up in everything but love
premeditated perfect plan
simple as 1 2 3
walk away looking innocent
so why are my dirty hands the only ones clean
to blackmail you with the fear of being caught doing the wrong thing
simple solution to such soo called chaos
logic dear watson
we knew this day would come
the day we'd have to sing a familiar dance and song
so why among all of you singing along
do you not know the dance routine
of those coming your way to do you wrong
the world doesnt like to admit to its mistakes
but familiar patterns of unhealthy routines
life is pretty simple when you follow your heart
we all know that dance
we all know that song
so why are the misinformed of the act of how to spot
the ones you wouldnt let in
I'm smaller than you realise
and with emotional baggage to hang on you
why do you look so guilty
when i know the truth
simple logical equation
so lets start back at act 1 scene 1
the curtain closes when we have to change the routine
because a few people truly dont belong
executing a plan to blackmail you
and walk away leaving you to pay the consequences
i may not be intelligence
but honestly
its a simple logical equation
anyone can solve
to find out whose the one
follow your heart
the day hate makes more sense your defeated
breaking down what happened in my living room
how i was held hostage
and in the end the cop blamed and beat me
put that into perspective
and see that there must be a simple solution
the world just isn't organised enough to pull this off
someone would have said something
someone would have taken a stand
but if not
its pretty obvious
from this distance
so here i go folding with the winning hand
lightning doesnt strike the same place twice
but ohnestly hiding behind your intelligence
and freedom of speach to blackball me
i did it to myself
i just dont know why so many of you wouldnt do the right thing
It was sunny the day our hearts broke away.
A decade has passed—but some wounds ignore clocks.
The news bloomed like bruises on a nation’s chest.
Shoreham stood still.
Time forgot how to move.
Eleven men.
Men of mornings and small routines.
Lunchboxes. Laughter. Motorbikes.
Some had children. Others were children—still.
And one…
one kept wildflowers on his phone.
Too shy to say, “This made me think of you.”
There’s no symmetry to this grief.
It leans sideways and doesn’t apologise.
It smells like engine oil and funeral flowers.
It hums in the throat of widows and mothers,
grows moss in the cracks of pub tables,
clings to the wings of the plane that didn’t stop.
Somewhere, a bottle of red remains uncorked.
Somewhere, a bike rests against a wall no one will move.
Somewhere, wildflowers still bloom—
and someone remembers
the man who loved flight,
but stayed grounded
for everyone but himself.
Still.
Author’s Note:
For the eleven lives lost on 22 August 2015 at Shoreham:
Dylan Archer, Richard Smith, James Mallinson, Mark Trussler,
Matt Jones, Matthew Grimstone, Jacob Schilt, Daniele Polito,
Tony Brightwell, Mark Reeves, Maurice Abrahams.
You are remembered.
Dear Editor,
I won’t let you stand on my throat—
Stifle my compassion,
Weigh down my shoulders
With a chip — not sweet like chocolate,
But sharp like ice.
Not from the old block,
But cracked from the freeze
You placed in my bones.
You guillotine my fire
And return me only grief.
Dear Editor,
I know your job is important—
But is it louder than the truth
That begs to be heard?
Just because a stanza doesn’t touch you,
Or it ends without rhyme or convention,
Does that make it any less real?
Dear Editor,
Please see the substance beneath the design.
We poets are crucified
For daring to call out—
For letting our voices
Tremble, burn, and bleed.
Dear Editor,
I once wrote about loss
So heavy, it cracked the sky.
A plane fell — and a friend was gone.
And I wrote it raw.
And I sent it whole.
And it came back with silence.
Maybe the timing was wrong,
But the pain was right.
Dear Editor,
I beseech you:
Look into your heart,
And look at the piece.
Admire the craft,
But let truth ring through.
Then maybe more of the unheard,
The undervalued,
And the unpolished
Will shine, too.
Midst efforts to resolve a viral pandemic
Causing global illness and death epidemic
As we process the merits of our heartfelt fears
Mixed with worry, doubt, dread, anger, and sometimes tears
Let’s not forget about the virgin who conceived
A child sent from God, so our sins could be relieved.
As we shelter in our places of seclusion
Where once welcomed visits are now an intrusion
As we inhale and exhale covered by our mask
While simple routines are now a cumbersome task
Let’s recall that to the virgin a child was born
Who would bring hope, joy, and peace to a world forlorn
When six feet apart striving for social distance
Has become the new normal of our existence
When our multiple efforts of sanitation
Instigates within us constant aggravation
Visit the manger, see Joseph and his betrothed
Gaze upon the child who in swaddling rags was clothed
When the news of more COVID cases scours the land
When the ones who govern hand down a new demand
When after each encounter we wash our hands clean
As we hope and pray each day for a new vaccine
Listen to the voices of the angelic throng
Announcing the Messiah’s presence in their song
As new stipulations create family strain
And events occur causing economic pain
When we come in close contact with those infected
Then obey rules of quarantine as directed
Let’s treasure the glorious news of a savior
Who came to remedy our sinful behavior
When we grieve a cherished friend or loved one who dies
And we can’t properly gather to say goodbyes
When we want to weep and give each other a hug
But we are restricted to a stare and a shrug
Let’s join the angels in praising the Prince of Peace
For in His grace and mercy we will find release
When each retail store bears the sign “masks are required”
And every adventure makes us tense and tired
When we learn that someone had a positive test
And we retreat to our homes for much needed rest
Let’s treasure Jesus, ponder His truth in our heart
With fresh faith in Him tomorrow a new day start
Midst our expressed concerns about the world’s future
Worrying that the wounds are too deep to suture
When mental anguish and fear are out of control
When encouraging words lack power to console
Recall that our purpose is to give Christ glory
And our mission is to propagate His story
The only woman I ever loved gives joy and love, For I have met and loved other women but not with such satisfaction I feel now. For she turns a dark day bright and shares a smile that brings life to a withering rose, if only her parents knew they would have called her Rose because she is my Rose of Sharon. Give me love my angel for today we joined in one, let us rejoice in our love and strengthen our bond in marriage.
Days, weeks, months pass and my love is still strong and sharper than any double edged sword. We on the second year now, why the sudden change. Our usual routines fade with the honeymoon phase, no more cuddling its now frequent quarreling. Is marriage like this? Love fades now its reality; she comes late at night and leaves early in the morning. The home once full of love now lays with sorrows.Donot know who to blame but myself for I ran before I could walk and landed before I could fall and now everything is vivid we jumped into marriage leaving us livid.
Everything changes I do not feel at home anymore, because home is where the heart is and for now my heart is wondering. I start feeling at home at pubs, for it is there where I drown my sorrows. Nightfall becomes my joy for I know the bar calls and sorrows are drowned. I now long for body warmth for in bed we now like Siamese twins joined by our backs.
Usual routine at the bar two three beers a woman approaches, she speaks with persuasion, have I found love at the bar or is it the alcohol taking its course? She whispers in my ear all through the night. She then leads me away like a bull led for slaughter.
Morning and everything is bleak but I feel body warmth, had I partaken in the act of love with the mystifying woman. Suddenly she awakes; she smiles and demands she be reward for her participation in the act. It then hits me, is she the thorny rose that wilts other roses, the lady of the night that brings gloom. I glance around the room; nothing strikes me as a condom. Does that mean I partook in the act of love with the lady of the night without protection?
Has my marriage lead me to death, It seems death is now soon to be my destiny. For I know with the ladies of the night comes the devil's advocate.
And now that the curse of my marriage
She was one of the reasons I lived and now she is the only reason I'm dying...
Form:
hear the phrase all of the time,
‘It doesn’t fit the narrative,’
used in news, academia,
and in political missives,
a phrase that I find curious
since so many do seem to yell
that the narrative they’ve chosen
outweighs even the world itself.
Like Marx’s view on history,
and the old ‘progress’ fallacy,
this thought that we must have stages,
advance through them relentlessly,
but history won’t hold them up,
it doesn’t go by what they say,
there is no path man is bound to,
just crazy lurchings everyday.
Did not 2016 prove this?
The narrative was she would win,
but things didn’t turn out that way,
and folks went nuts, thought it a sin.
Screamed about it for four years,
it wasn’t supposed to happen, no!
Despite the fact, scanning the past,
that this is how things often go.
I think, perhaps, the first mistake
you see in the narrative crowd,
is simple overreduction,
to pair all human beings down.
We saw this in Collectivists,
and their misplaced faith in ‘the group,’
but others do this trick as well,
simplification hides the truth.
Humans are a chaos system,
even taken one at time,
sure, we do have our old routines,
but every so often you’ll find
we do something that makes no sense,
that no other man could predict,
that unseen burst of randomness,
is so often what makes us tick.
Expand that to the whole species,
and you see chaos written large,
chaos actors interacting,
I think that it's a stretch too far
for any human mind to grasp,
to think you could is a conceit,
too many factors change too fast
to be forseen reliably.
Add to that the physical world
is a chaos system as well,
and we’re all stuck living with it,
this makes it really hard to tell
what causes this, or changes that,
to our mind it seems randomness,
it’s plain to see that narrative
cannot encompass all of this.
Our brain simply can’t organize
or relate to something that vast,
we simplify to understand,
and there’s a great danger in that.
Some start to think the narrative
is objective reality,
and act as if denying that
is a troubling perfidy.
But when has the world ever cared
about the thoughts we apes create?
The world is not a narrative,
that is a fact we can’t escape...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.