Long Shooing Poems
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Oh the Works He had done in being followed night and day
The Savior, God's only Son as for the World's sins He'd pay
There finally with a moment to sit so to rest His weary Feet
Perhaps a small fire was lit as the Lord rested upon His seat
When along came such a joyous noise in a group of children
Such young girls and boys years from being woman and men
Seeing Jesus was so tired the Apostles try shooing them away
For as to what they inquired, Saying 'come back another day"
When the Lord Himself called out to bring them over to Me
A Love you couldn't doubt in the loving tenderness you'd see
And as they came nearer the loving smile on our Lords Face
Makes Him so much more clearer in the knowing of His Grace
As around they all came some even cradled under Jesus' arm
By the Power of the Holy Spirits Flame so protected by harm
When He was weary and tired the Lord didn't turn them away
In so whatever you are mired, He's sitting right there today
Blessed are the Pure of Heart for they shall see God.
Judge me not, just wear my biting shoes
And then see, wear no blinkers of views
Of which little I care,
Nor care such shoes to wear,
And there’s no room I think
To paint peacock’s eggs pink,
Or else wait and hope I lose my muse.
______________________________________
Limerick | 06.09.2022 | Humour
Poet’s note: Every writer, prose or poetry, every performer, painter or player passes through this phase—to feel like shooing off the critics like a speck of dust on the dress he wears. It is good to feel sure of what one writes. But every lump of gold has to pass through the test of fire to purify.
There it stands, desolate and alone
That roofless shell where the winds
Still whisper of the past
When scampering children's squeals
And wheeling seabirds' cries
Rose thinly through the air.
A thatched croft from which a healthy living was scraped
A shirt-sleeved man, braces showing,
Bald pate bunneted against the sun,
Bent over to tend his plot
An aproned woman cheerfully shooing away the hens
To collect the eggs for the evening meal
Beside a silvery sea stretching
To the horizon
Hiding the city lights and its imagined pleasures
Until those dreams drew the young away
Watched sadly by the elderly pair
Their exodus damning
The island to its desolation
Where still the birds' cries squeal
And the wind through the grass softly whispers
Surrounding the now silent croft
In the salt sharp air
What homely pleasures such a life once offered
Now the graveyard of fading memories
While the once busy city streets
Stand empty drained of life
As the virus continues to take its toll
Four Short Poems for the Apocalypse
Poem #1 – “Reality Bites”
Feeling so hopeless.
Feeling the loss somewhere inside.
I can feel it, but I don’t know quite where.
Reality bites.
Feeling so awkward and sad.
I knew it was bound to happen.
But still,
I can’t get it out of my mind.
The last time I saw her,
There in that stuffy smelly room,
She was shooing the demons away.
It is true.
The gods make those who are about to die
As mad as gadflies
Without blood to suck.
Reality bites.
Feeling so empty.
Feeling the loss somewhere inside.
I thanked the stars the night she died.
Poem #2 – “Part Biscuit Part Bone”
I shiver when I think about it.
Getting’ up at four in the morning to walk six miles.
There is only one fool who would do such a thing.
My brain is sometimes cracked like my sidewalk.
It must be part biscuit, part bone.
But when I walk in the darkness
The entire world is mine.
I am the only one alive
And I salute the ghosts in the shadows.
They want my soul
And I want their ethereal essences.
I shiver when I think about it.
Maybe death is like a walk at four.
There is only one fool who would think that.
It must be part biscuit, part bone.
Poem #3 – “Baked Babylon”
Squeezing the forceps, handlessly
Like a pair of tweezers with no grip.
I groan and suffer alone.
Like Grover Cleveland back in 1892
When his cancerous jaw was dug into
By mustached doctors wearing pink carnations,
Digging and gouging and tugging
Like some gravedigger looking for soft earth.
Baked Babylon is my grease.
Let it smoke and oilize.
I want death for myself, no one else.
One billion children do not deserve the incineration.
Poem #4 – “Why Am I Thinking?”
Why am I thinking?
Is it because I stink?
Is it because I’m stuck breathing?
Why am I dying?
Is it because life is a game with no winners?
Is it because I seek pleasure in a world of pain?
Why am I crying?
is it because life is so futile?
Is it because death is the best part?
Why am I thinking?
Is it because I can’t help it?
Can’t help stopping the inevitable?
Oh death!
You wait for me over there,
Like a forlorn lover,
Behind shaded curtains in the night.
He prowl very still across
the calm merky waters
I can see him and he can
see me with his big yellow
eyes his pupils are lime
green slowly he crawls not
even shooing the cranes
from off his back he crawls
past the woodstorck perching
on one leg the tall Cypress
trees seems to sway as the
moisture dampens the earth
it's July already Christmas
trees are ready to be cut and
shipped off in time for the
Christmas season I love this
time of year although the heat
covers the swamp not a breeze
in sight the female alligators
panted all night laying eggs
upon the drift wood herons
flying high as egrets feast
on snakes the sun peeks in
around noon as the alligators
approached the grass sun
bathing watching the golfers
tee off sipping brandy in all
this heat commotion beckons
someone fishing just lost a limb
my mind wanders the nature
of this prehistoric giant unseen
until prey invade his space again
chomp bones breaking cracking
like branches the lake swells wails
screeching lots of feathers the
deer rush through the forest just
keep moving continue on stop your
squawking and keep on walking
Written by Mrs Yolanda Joy Nicholsen
The Majestic Banyan
Standing alone in the village outskirts
With branches protruding to the other end
Always makes me feel from two discrete lenses
The exhausted cattle rest under it ruminating and shooing
The shouts of merry boys while playing with marbles,
Climbing, swinging and running around
How nice the day is!
But nothing finds close at hand when dark diffuses gradually
The mighty banyan appears as a dilapidated fort
And frightens me on a full moon night
Its silhouette comes off as
A strutting demon with hair torn off on a no moon night
The hanging roots like serpents swinging upside down
The sprawling and intertwined roots like matted hair of a yogi
When there is a gale, it sways forward
And it resembles a python with stretched jaws to swallow the village
Scary silence pervades around at times
A busy den for the nocturnal world!
The spying owl with its locked eyes
The thrumming camp of flying foxes
Pecks of a distressed bird
Chirps of crickets and beetles
Croaks and hoarse voices as macabre music
Unsettling leaves as elephant’s ears producing susurration sounds
The swarming fireflies around like lights of spirits
The hiss of a snake
And the crackling when it crawls on the dried leaves
Some mysterious chants
And the glowing blood red fire in its enclosed space
Perhaps, the diabolic acts of a sorcerer
For evoking spirits and ghosts hidden in the tree
The raising smoke out from it as a subtle body
Registered as a gruesome tree in my childhood cognitive domain
Feelings that is just inside;
Something's that you can not hide;
Why?
Why? Lord. . .
Touch me as a morning breeze;
As a summer Sunday shooing June memory;
Mine,
all mine;
Let your arms of mercy wrap around me;
Wrap around me like the branches of a tree;
For this I know I have a love and a kinship only you to me;
Let your quiet voice surround me like a sparrow above the seas;
Lord your touch, Lord your touch
Your gentle touch
God's gentle touch means so much, means so much;
For only in God do with trust;
Let your arms of mercy wrap around me;
Wrap around me like the branches of a tree;
For this I know I have a love and a kinship only you to me;
Let your quiet voice surround me like a sparrow above the seas;
Lord your touch, Lord
God holy gentle touch I need it love it so very much, so much;
Can't abide inn the bubble of this old world
Something's that I can't hide
But I will abide, I'll survive;
And in a twinkling of an eye I will be with you Lord;
Touch me as a morning breeze;
As a summer Sunday shooing June memory;
Mine,
all mine;
Let your arms of mercy wrap around me;
Wrap around me like the branches of a tree;
For this I know I have a love and a kinship only you to me;
Let your quiet voice surround me like a sparrow above the seas;
Lord your touch, Lord your touch
Your gentle touch;
God's gentle touch;
From anthology "Rise Up Above It"
Written words & Arranged music by James Edward Lee Sr.
08/31/2010
We dived on coral reef, my buddy and I,
virtually tethered to stay paired.
He was obsessed with clown fish.
I kept dragging him away,
to see other things.
He kept poking hands at colorful
anemones waving tentacles in the current,
shooing the clown fish away, playing.
Unknowingly his hand slipped into
a giant clam, which clamped shut on his wrist.
We tried and tried to get the clam to release its grip,
to let his hand free, to let him go.
He and I stabbed with knives,
cutting and bashing as its soft insides.
All to no avail, the grip just got tighter and tighter.
The current had increased to a mighty surge underwater.
Leaving my buddy now, to go for help,
was out of the question.
Not enough time, not enough air.
How would I find my way back in the current.
Suddenly my buddy signalled with hand across his throat.
He was out of air!
Our training kicked in we started to buddy-breathe
with my regulator, one breath at a time, in turns.
I looked at my gauge, and was shocked to see
there was only 15 minutes of air left!
With two sucking in air, it would not last that long.
We both stared into each other's eyes.
We knew what we had to do.
I tied a rope tightly around the snared arm
above the wrist.
I drew my knife out of its scabbard.
I took an extra long deep breath.
As we be breathed,
I handed the regulator back to him,
and cut ...........
My Muse
This muse – personal trainer of my pen,
This restless spirit pacing in imagination’s sanctuary,
Gathers fleeting moments into anticipation’s tabernacle
Swaddles divine laughter, brooding gloom and holy fire
With scented leaves from her perfumed garden
Hallowed space clothed in inspiration
Where my love and loss embrace in genesis
Shooing away paralyzed procrastination
To transcend into creation lyrics and lines
In a cloistered hermitage of rhymes and rhythms
Drifting through defiant midnight in dopplers
With ultrasound colors of fading rainbows
Like pinpoints of ice or fleeting romantic dews -
Drawn from vaults of the eternal’s benediction –
Waking my insomniac meditations
So in my deafness I may hear her abiding presence,
In mystical and magic lines like prisms glow
Follow through
Dusky passages of visions
Poetic shame tattooed in rust
Enthralled by
Her faceless sacred songs played in my heart
So we join hands
Then lift our tousled words in nude prayers and pleas
In the unbroken sacramental circle of life
Cried to the four winds, seas and oceans
To praise the infinite everlasting.
1-4-23
Above Looking Down
Above the earth, floating on air,
In gas spheres upward extending,
Lackadaisical without care,
Storm clouds are brewing, so it’s time for shooing.
In a gas sphere upward extending,
I see creation gone amok;
Storm clouds are brewing, so it’s time for shooing
And to seek shelter from the havoc.
Seeing creation gone amok
Is likened to sheep (among wolves)
That seek shelter from the havoc
And see in the sky flying doves.
The sheep bleat when attacked by wolves,
Calling the shepherd to save them,
And I fly free with peaceful doves,
Sadly looking down on the mayhem.
Watching the shepherd coming to save them,
Lackadaisically without care.
Sadly, I look down on the mayhem
From above the earth, floating on air.