Long Seat Poems
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What do you believe?
What do you know?
did you have any clue i read tarot cards professioanlly for the oldest restarunt built
in my city
and predict surprised birthday parties that have passed
and cfan tell you all sorts of secrets of exaggerated emotion and paranoia
that only the moon knows
So like the life lesson of the hanged man
are you here to realise you are gullible or to see through me and know ive been
telling the truth
is this a test for you flase prophet
or your spiritual awakening with another card before you saying all of my poetic
poems that sound personal are nothing more than fabrications
and many of you judge me
and that further goes to prove my writing ability?
Is it true do i know anything of being bonded to the material
and the devil who reminds me the keys to my chains are within my grasp
And the tower of unforseen catastrophe always has a happy ending or a rainbow
but only a true prophet in the year 2012 in las vegas understands the
conspirtualacy of my craft
Is the hierophant all about the conformity of society
and the grouping together of the nonconformidt youth
so when the saints and sinners pull to gether to revolutionise and pull this star
from the sky will our dreams or nightmares come true?
Tell me prophet Am i a fool because the magician never taught me his tricks
but i understand the perfect shufles and have a deck of freudian slips of my own?
the blue moon sunrise and the three levels of the game of reality
we take babysteps of fear to beat or fail to proceed or return to the start
Where exactly is the emperor's crown of authority when society understands the
slide of psychology
and the one of a million being catered to
and the billion sof like minded individuals that spiral out from this psychological
understanding
Am i in the driver seat of the chariot and do i have enough temperance
to balance the forces of good and bad to see the pros and cons
of the blessings and ultimatums of desires and consequence
were you gullible all this time to fall for my lies?
or were you smart enough to see them as works of art?
or are you a true prophet and need to start the revolution from the earth and the
pollution of our skies
here i am
a false martyr
tell me prophet whats in store for me
and what am i to do?
Warm your heart with what’s left of summer, warm your heart and put on a thick skin for winter, open all the resorts and hotel all over the town and fill them with tourist where destiny is bound.
Fire and storms will come, twister, tornados, typhoon, hurricane, cyclone will take you up to the moon and when the earthquake levels everything to the ground you can find solace on the other side of the town. When the fires burn the hill, just look up to the skies and keep still, it is purifying the land so the next generation can sing a happy song.
Warm your heart with what is left of the summer, warm your heart and dine with me in winter. I will give you discount on every suite and I will give you half price for a table for two to romance in the breeze. Get the whole family and come and have some summer fun life goes on for the battle that is not yet won.
Many businesses are down and total devastation is left in the town but somewhere in the middle of the ruins, there is hope. You can clear away a spot, set up a mobile kitchen, an entertainment corners and bring the caterers in.
The tourist bus will arrive in your town and they will greet you without a frown, the ships will come too and you will have business for the rest of the year so don’t fear.
Warm your heart with what is left of the summer get your friends and family and join me for dinner, Aunt Jane cannot come because her grieving is long,
She cannot get over the loss of her entire family. Three boys, a husband and four dogs perish in the fire. She was away when the fire started; she is inconsolable and she is vulnerable so we visit her from time to time to tell her that life is divine. She will always have a seat at this table.
Warm your heart with what is left of the summer and let’s go shopping, before winter, we will get something’s from the gardens store because we are going to do a big barbecue outdoor.
You must get some household gift, kitchen counter and table items. You will go to the electronic store and buy many things galore; business is very slow so you will bring some people in the town and have blowout sale all year round.
Warm your heart with what’s left of the summer, take a trip to Japan, China or America, just let it all go and get ready for the big show.
Winter is around the corner so enjoy what is left of the summer; just warm your heart.
Panting, running, paying, fuming,
Bumping, swearing, hurrying, driving,
All because today is the thirty first
Of the month, why are we all nigh to burst!
Got to buy groceries, go the butcher
The dry cleaners, the florist, the baker,
Did i turn on the slow cooker?
Have guests coming at 8.00p.m still
On the road, home in 15 minutes – phone Will,
Darling, Did you collect the birthday cake,
There is a big accident, traffic hectic won’t make
It to pick it up – Yes sweetheart I have
Drive carefully the roads are crazy,
Looks like a storm brewing, weather drizzly and hazy.
As I arrive in our driveway it pours with rain,
And I drop a packet, which had the red wine, I stain
My clothes and the car seat, go have your shower,
Hubby says, relax, everything is under control,
Turned shower taps to their full strength and power
Exhausted, let the water run over my naked body
Till I feel refreshed, get dressed in my
Sexy black number,
And come downstairs, hubby gives me a wolf whistle,
Just wait till the guests leave he says, look at him
From under my lashes!
The aroma wafting from the stove is
Provocatively divine!
And next to the sofa is a glass of room
Temperature red wine.
Table is set, arrange flowers I brought in a vase,
Immediately, the bell goes ding dong,
It’s Cherry and Tim,
She couldn’t wait to show me her engagement ring,
Hot on their heels are Susan and Barry,
He has just asked Susan to him marry,
And last of all my twin sister Rina, arrives she’s wise,
With her new boyfriend in tow she bellows, Hi guys!
Fun was had and wine was drunk
Laughter abounded in the lounge and dining room,
We all forgot how tired we were and
It was end of the month, and all the media forecasted,
Was doom and gloom!
It was my birthday, turning forty, no turning back now,
Don’t regret a day of my life, bless the day I took my vow,
Happy birthday dear Mary, happy Birthday to you,
I felt blest had my hubby and sister present and select
Friends but few,
Mellow and happy and with certainly no one drunk,
Just four happy couples full of zest and funk!
Our guests began departing, in twos they left,
I slipped of my shoes and gave a big yawn,
Will picked me up, and must have undressed
Me – for all I remember is waking up to a peck
On my cheek,
And a scrumptious breakfast in bed,
I always knew I had picked the right guy to wed!
After finishing a seminar based on demand and supply,
I walked out to the street and hailed a taxi going by,
and as I sat down in the seat, the taxi driver said to me,
‘my, my, your timings perfect, you are just the same as Terry.’
I must admit he had me thinking, so of course I answered ‘Who?’
‘Terry Parker’ said the cabbie; a bloke it’s obvious he knew.
‘Yeah, anything that Terry did, he was right on every score,
he lived with perfect timing and Terry never had one flaw.’
I had never met a bloke like Terry, so I’m wary of the fact,
so I subtly gave me answer in a way most would react,
‘None of us are perfect mate,’ but the cabbie did insist
That Terry, he was faultless, and so few like him exist.
I heard that Terry was an athlete with the most amazing skills,
His golfing matched the pros, and his tennis playing simply thrills,
he could sing like Johnny Cash; and even better so I’m told,
he danced like Fred Astaire; his piano playing…simply gold.
I could only think he must be special, this Terry Parker bloke,
and the cabbie uttered ‘hang on,’ and once again he spoke,
‘there’s more to Terry yet, you see his memory never failed,
he remembered every birthday, and every one detailed.
‘He was a connoisseur on beer, and knew everything ‘bout wine,
He knew how to serve the finest foods; all simply pure divine.
And if anything needs fixing, then Terry was your shining light,
he was streets ahead of me, ‘cause I can’t do nothing right.
‘He could always read the traffic, and you’d never find him stuck,
not like me when I am driving, for I had none of Terry’s luck,
and I ought to mention women, and how he made them feel so good,
he was the ideal gentleman; he treated women how I should.
‘Terry would never answer back, even if the woman’s wrong,
he was a charming butler, and his charisma it was strong,
he kept his house immaculate, as no other person can…
no one could measure up; Terry Parker was the perfect man.’
When I reached my destination but before I stepped outside,
I paid the driver what was due, and then I thanked him for the ride,
but I thought it best I mention, at more or less a parting whim,
‘this Terry Parker is remarkable, how did you get to meet him?’
The driver took my money, and then he muttered deep and slow,
‘Actually I never met him, but I’m married to his widow.’
“And you call yourself a bloody cook”, this mongrel shearer said.
“I oughta ram this rubbish down yer’ throat, it’ll kill a bloke stone dead.”
He’s talking ‘bout the stew I burnt, which I hoped he couldn’t focus.
That he’d gulp it down with ‘red-eye’ wine, and he would fail to notice.
But no, my luck was out, he flew raging from his seat
“You’ve put a taste into my ‘gob’, now I need something sweet,
What’s in the fridge;” he yanked the door, took out a plate and bowl,
On one was chunky custard, and one a mouldy sausage roll.
“Look at this!” The shearer screamed, so all the mob could see.
First they eyed the sausage roll, and then looked back at their tea.
“Hang on” I said, “You ‘mangy’ lot, what you’re seeing here,
Is something I can’t be blamed for, they’re from the cook last year.”
“Git’ the boss!” I heard yelled out, and one went for the door.
I need this job and need it bad … to them I vowed and swore.
I’ll clean out the fridge and lift my act; then promised I would bake,
A treat for them on Wednesday ... my special chocolate cake.
My memory’s a little blank, for the ingredients I need,
I’ve got most in the cupboard, with no recipe to read,
Butters scarce but lard will do, and the milks a little sour.
None of them are ‘gunna’ notice, the weevils in the flour.
There’s salt and caster sugar, I need cocoa but there’s none,
There is a tin of milo though; its use by date is March of sixty-one,
That’s everything to make the cake; all I need’s an egg to bind,
Oh yes! There are two in the fridge; last years cook had left behind.
I got down the mixing bowl, and took some water from the tank,
Spooned out a couple of wrigglers … the dead ones to the bottom sank.
I’m not sure about the ounces or the tablespoons and such.
Cups of this with drops of that, but does that really matter much.
The only time I wasn’t sure, and felt maybe should I renege,
When I cracked the shell and found, a half grown chicken in the egg.
But they’re shearers here, big and strong, who’d never get to eat,
Let alone a chocolate cake, but one that’s made with meat.
The oven’s hot, the textures great, I greased the baking dish.
The cake was cooked and it smelt great … every shearers wish.
But a chicken’s foot stuck out the top; I cut out and ate that bit.
You know this chocolate cake of mine, tasted – more – like … ‘passionfruit’!
Everyone hates my poetry
Because it doesn’t wear makeup.
Because it stares too long,
or not long enough.
Because it mentions the body
like a room that remembers
every man who left his name in dust.
Because it’s too sad,
too loud,
too holy,
too raw—
because it does not ask permission
to bleed
where others would politely weep.
They say I should whisper.
I scream in stanzas instead.
Line breaks like broken bones —
each one healed wrong on purpose.
I rhyme “fxxk” with “forgiveness”
and call it a sacrament.
I flirt with ghosts.
I give grief a seat at the table.
I write what I can’t confess.
And then I press send.
And wait.
And wait.
And wait.
?
Go your own way, they say.
But I was never theirs to lose.
I won’t be your throat,
your mouth,
your Sunday-quiet muse.
Dance in the avalanche —
I’ll be drinking full-blooded wine.
You butter your toast,
I’ll bleed ink and call it divine.
I’m Dracula,
you’re limpets —
clinging to shores of should.
Sinister mercy monsters
with teeth made of wood.
You won’t take mine.
I’ve bartered them
for metaphor.
For myth.
For the kind of flame
that never asks to be understood.
I sit on a throne
shaped like an electric chair,
burning truth until
only the bones of beauty remain.
You?
You live in living rooms.
You collect pretty things.
I braid your betrayal
into a lei of lunacy —
my madness in bloom.
Say I’m too old.
Too female.
Too much.
There’s something in the water.
Damn right.
I am the water.
I merge with ocean light.
The moon kisses me goodnight.
Why do I need your approval to feel seen?
Must just be a throwback trauma dream.
Your eyes — not galaxies,
but black holes,
sucking the light from my becoming.
I offered constellations,
you brought collapse.
But still—
I orbit my own flame.
Still, I rise in ruin’s dress,
sequined with scars.
I chew the fat
with better men than you,
men who don’t flinch
when a woman burns through.
Men who sip my fury like wine,
and still
ask for another glass.
You?
You watered me down,
then called me “too much”
for the mess you made.
?
And still I write.
Vasava – An untold story 10/Many
Curtains made of Silk with gold thread embroidery
Were hanging on all the doors and windows of the auditorium
Big silk curtains, were hanging behind the dance stage
Shining and blinking, because of gold and silver on them,
Were brightening the dance stage, making it bright like a day
Beautiful Persian carpets were displayed
Covering the entire auditorium, where the guests were sitting
A thin such carpet was also lying, all around the stage
Leaving the dance floor, which was made of Mahogany wood
On which, Vasava was sitting to start her first Raga of the day
All the eyes were drinking the nectar like wine of Vasava
So lovely were her looks and so intoxicating was her youth
The beauty of her spotless body, was spreading its charms
Which was coming out, from every part of her body, specially
The matchless beauty of her eyes, legs, waist, hands and bosoms
King Suyodhan was invited on the stage to declare the Utsava to begin
And then appeared the attraction of the Utsava or the day, Vasava
The drums and musical instruments began to flow their sounds
The team of musicians accompanying Vasava, took seat near her
Suddenly all became speechless, so that they may not miss a word of her singing
Vasava’s face appears to have taken, the beauty from full Moon glow
And the gold Noopur* which she wearing in her feet’s
Were ringing, on her leg’s movements, creating a melody on its own,
Her recitation of Saraswati’s* prayer had already enthralled everyone
And now she was about to begin, her first performance of the day
Ravindra to continue in 11
Kanpur India 21st March 2010
Copy writes protection as per Poetry Soup automatic Copy write provisions also.
* Gold Noopur Noorpur means small bells, which dancers wear while
performing the dances in Indian. The Noopur which
Vasava was wearing were made of Gold. It creates a
sound on the movements of legs. Normally it is made
of brass and many such are tied up in a cloth belt.
* Noopur A hallow anklet containing tiny bells
Hearing the news of 9/11 again...and it makes me look back at that destructive day
I remember it slightly...it's a sheer memory in my mind, but at least it's sunny today
Reading signs all around me and feeling at ease for a while
Taking a trip in a truck full of food items and I'm clearing up my boredom pile
Pre-ch: Oooh oooh oooh what is this feeling I feel?
My heart is made of the finest steel
These wounds I bear are about to heal
Hours pass me by and I haven't wasted much of it - even if I did, it's no big deal
Ch: I'm fulfilling success and failure all in one package
Pushing my way out...rummaging out of the wreckage
Now I'm approaching the lane of positivity and negativity
I'm playing the role of a hard worker, carrying responsibility
On my shoulders...there's a huge load on my shoulders
The future is knocking on the door of my cranium and the past neighbors of nostalgic restlessness blurs
I'm holding on to the last ounce of optimism
I am the sand of the sea and you're the precious prism
Stacking boxes upon boxes upon boxes...and watching the shipping man stack boxes upon boxes upon boxes
Volunteering is something I should always be willing to do when I am facing my lonely states
The truck is zipping through the street, making a whole lot of movement but I don't mind at all - as long as we make progress
Fearing the worst is something I shouldn't do, but motivation and hope are one of my most prized traits
Pre-ch
Ch
Blissful silence and guiltless essence are wrapped all in one package...they are the vigilant moons and brilliant suns
Break the eggshells of immense shame and throw all your worries down the drain
Refrain from driving me insane, expired guilt that overflows from a truck load of milk cartons
Why do I suddenly feel calmness and gratefulness at this present time? For once, I feel sane
Pre-ch
Ch
Ch
Honestly, my life has produced its lows and highs
Oh joy, how time flies by and bugs me like flies
That hover all around me like the advertisements of the city streets
Coping with the corruptions and temptations that try to get me hooked on sweets
I have planted myself on the front seat of the truck, feeling like I can relate to the products that are in back of us
We are both all in one package - isn't everyone somewhat in the same rowdy bus? I will work a sweat and not fuss
On a sunny day in late September
we were on our way to Runswick Bay,
on a walk that we gladly remember,
meeting people on the Cleveland Way.
Assorted folk with the same idea
taking in distant views over the sea,
a gentle breeze, the far horizon clear,
nearby hips and haws bright on bush and tree.
Whoever you meet, just what do you say?
Should it be ”Hi!” or rather “Hello!”?
Is it “Good morning” or maybe “Good day?”
If they greet me first I go with the flow.
Whatever is said may offer a clue,
tell you something about the other,
whether there is further chat to pursue
or just some remarks about the weather.
Having arrived we sat by the beach
eating our sandwiches watched by some dogs
and seagulls, waiting to swoop or to reach
for tasty morsels, whatever drops.
After a paddle to refresh my feet,
there were four and a half miles to return
to Sandsend for our walk to complete.
First there were steps to climb by the burn,
passing more people too breathless to greet;
grateful to pause we let them pass by
with a nod or wave – but wished for a seat!
There at the top a gate was held wide
by a couple with smiles to wave us through.
We paused as I stretched my cramp to ease
also to remove a stone from my shoe;
then onward we trod refreshed by the breeze.
Off the cliff face using the updraught
fulmars glided scanning the sea below.
Retracing our steps, features we'd passed
informed us how far we still had to go.
High on his combine, late harvest to reap
the farmer raised his hand as we stopped,
paused to pick blackberries more sharp than sweet.
Speckled wood butterflies near to us dropped.
At last we came to more steps to descend,
holding the rail as these tested our knees.
Pausing again with views of Sandsend
and spray from breakers whipped up by the breeze.
Back at the car there was salt on the screen.
Time to examine my blistered feet
and to doze awhile, pondering the cuisine
of Whitby and just what we might eat:
Scampi and whitebait with too many chips,
cans of ginger beer to ease it all down,
observed by gulls we looked at the ships
that brought our supper to this port of renown.
* * *
We count our blessings that we were able
to escape to the coast for refreshment
before Covid restrictions on travel
could prevent a day of enjoyment.
My Pet Poems, Max
I hopped onto Craig’s List, made a phone call.
Next day, with a royal blue, nylon carrier, which had a small, zippered door, sitting on the back seat ready, we drove an hour southeast for this scrawny boy — white with beige/blonde markings on his back and,too, on his amazing, static-charged, flying ears. The first short-nosed dog I’d ever gotten, with quite an underbite.
The couple taking our $100 for this shih tsu told us: well, he’d not done well on their farm; was bullied by the other dogs; and was fearful of horses.
In turn, I thought: well, who wouldn’t be? This tiny, white fluff of a boy with that pronounced, huffing smile, all teeth from chin to nose. I told Jim on the drive home, “The funniest thing I ever saw.”
The vet record the couple gave us was fraud —no such vet. And, apparently, Max had a nerve disorder, too,which sent him into a fit of physical contractions and screaming at any point of any excitement. “He is one for the medical books,” our own vet said, as we tried every approach to help him. He suffered in those fits, as our ears and alarm for him did each and evoery time for over three years, with us finally stopping the meds, simply going to embrace him gently, saying softly, “Max! Max, jt’s all right...”
Now, some several years later, the fits are no more...I try not to, but I wonder what horrors he knew on that farm: if the bullying dogs bit him when he screamed? And if the couple tried kicking him out of his fits with their heavy farm boots? My intuitions all but saw it. Oh...
This little boy, who became the shadow figure at my feet... like his ancient Chinese-bred ancestors, lying guard before the holy places, and taking off to bark away any possible predators at the door; and, too, lying half-wakeful aside their sleeping monks or the town’s children in case some monster rose out from a dream, or some other need indicated a command.
Then, when Gigi came, he became instantly a big brother, as a dog will do it, he always abdicated as she insisted on being so at my side, in her little princess way of wedging her way between. Thus, Max has taken to Jim’s affections and shadows him. The boys there. The girls here. Affection throughout the room!
********. *********. ********. ********
(c)sally Young eslinger 12/23/20
Always Thanks be to God