Long Shoots Poems
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My mother used to have a radio
Bagged in black imitative leather;
The round speaker, volume, tuner in front,
And a small antenna is hidden on top.
When she pickled bamboo shoots or fishes,
Or when she filled up cotton mattress,
She loved to listen to traditional music.
She turned to country songs during her sewing.
She listened to the folkloric plays
While she was busy in the backyard.
If by accident, she turned to the news show;
She stayed there for a while to save ideas
For a dinner discussion with my father.
Then one day she dropped the radio:
The traditional music ceased.
She tapped it, hoping to recover the situation:
Radio revived, but the tuning knob locked up;
Her amusing stations were unreachable;
Only the news broadcast noise.
She did not want to spend money
To bring to the shop or to buy a new one.
She listened to the propaganda news.
For the long years, the radio made
My mother’s world heartlessly shrinks!
buds, shoots, tulip bulbs,
alive grasses green
rose bushes, bird songs
everything charming ~
rejuvenates world
hummingbird soars,
lark sings merry
robin makes nests,
sparrows croon sweet
heron glides,
cheerful birds
rendezvous~
joyful~
season
Spring
March 4, 2021
Spring Diminished Hexaverse Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Caren Krutsinger
Syllables checked by how many syllables.com
Berms rise high to the left and right,
they’ve created a wide gully,
another berm squares off the back,
so no stray rounds ever get free.
There’s a metal spinner back there,
sits just short of two hundred yards,
I squeeze back and the bullet flies,
recoil jolts shoulder and arm.
I hear that small, metallic ping,
and thrill that I’ve gotten a hit,
may not be hard for a marine,
but I am quite happy with it.
I’m a civvie with iron sights
on my Winchester ’94,
I don’t get out here that often,
so or me, I call it a score.
Around me, on this low platform
others folks are working their guns,
two boy scouts shoot their.22s,
are plinking away, having fun.
An older woman sports a Glock,
a pistol, it’s for self-defense,
seems hesitant, she’s new to this,
but rightly fears criminal men.
A guy that I know hunts big moose
shoots slowly, sighting in his scope,
he gave me some ground meat last year,
will he give again? (I can hope!)
Blasts come from a much wider field,
shotguns destroying sporting clays,
after they’ll brag about their scores,
as some boast about their golf game.
Behind it all is a clubhouse,
there is a big elk-head in there,
a meeting room where they teach class
for new shooters still unaware.
They sometimes sell hot dogs inside,
or chili, when they have events,
mostly it is a hang-out place,
a space where men still can be men.
And of course the good ol’ 2nd
hangs above the big fireplace,
what are other rights without it?
Just notions evil will disgrace.
I cycle through my magazine,
pick up the brass for my range bag,
I’m reloading much more these days,
with inflation prices are mad…
1
Bright shadows ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ shoots of bliss,
¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ world's gladness ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
A day to seek;
Eternity in time; the steps ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
We Climb ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ Lamps that light
Man through his heap of dark days; ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
2
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ Paradise; ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
The Cool ¦¦¦¦¦ day;
The Creatures' _Jubilee_; God's parle with dust;
Heaven here; ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ hills of Myrrh, and flowers;
Angels descending; ¦¦¦ Returns of Trust;
A Gleam of glory, ¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦
3
¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ love-feasts; Time's Prerogative,
And Interest
¦¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦ home of rest.
The milky way chalked out with suns; ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦
¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ and in full story
A taste of Heav'n on earth; ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦
¦¦¦ a full feast: And ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ ¦¦¦¦¦¦ ¦¦¦ glory.
(Blackout of Son-Days by Henry Vaughan)
I said to Xavier, "Tell me what's up".
He said, "Nuthin'" and I said, "Yup".
It didn't seem like much of a conversation.
So, I said, "You'll have to excuse
me, but tell me somethin' I can use.
I'm looking for some good information".
Xavier said, "Son, it's all in a name,
and I'm awfully glad you came.
Sit down, and listen up".
Xavier wasn't known for his coffee brew,
but I said, "Sure, but may I ask you
for a cup?"
"When your name is announced,
it's best if it can't be pronounced.
Does it start with X or Z?,
And whatever kind of name you got
pick one that goes well with Cugat -
that's what I call poetry."
The minute I finished that coffee cup,
I cracked my knuckles and I stood up,
saying, "It's been a pleasure."
You might be surprised to hear
that conversation made my life clear...
helpful beyond measure.
Now, I understand, it's not the name.
A man or book is just the same
underneath its cover.
And while Xavier told me the opposite,
I've always felt he's full of "sh**".
That's what I'd discover.
And there's something else I found out
when we drank beer and caught some trout -
I hope he doesn't hold a grudge.
That guy who shoots off his mouth like that
every time we chew the fat?
His real name is Justin Smudge.
Start
The dark is full of suspense I stare at the night,
The moon, like some ghost out of its grave, comes out misty white.
I see the sky dotted with billions of stars across the crest,
Like countless diamonds spilling out of a treasure chest.
The sun rises in the distant horizon as a red ball of fire,
I run across the meadows to watch it climb the sky higher and higher.
I thank God for each new day and the night that has gone,
Each new beginning and the promise of days to come.
The heaven is wrapped in flying clouds, the winds blow them away,
The sun peeps in and out, to find its way.
The cloud becomes dark, streaks of lightning flash,
Rain-drops fall on the ground into puddles ready to splash.
The rains wash the withering leaves and help new shoots grow,
It draws out the scent of the earth as the gurgling water flow.
The rivulets carry the water over parched farms and finally to the sea,
Divine wisdom ensures this process never fails, we have to agree.
End
"Fartastially yours," he says as he shoots them out like a gun
I pinch my nose in disgust and then I speed out like a bullet
"honey I went hard as a rock," he whines, " think I lost a ton"
sticking my head out the door, " it must have been the mullet,
"Fart-tastic, Fantastic " he croons, " hurry go get the skillet "
we can cook them and feed them to the Browns, hon ...
Theres a knock at the door and I open it, its Louise Oh God !
from the bathroom he hollars " honey let her in, its fine "
"I've come to borrow a bottle of wine" she says, "for Claude"
sorry Lou, my husband is unwell and we drank up all the wine
sniffing around she asks " did you cook rotten fish Adeline?"
yes I did but now Jerry is in the can and its not a good sign
"Fart-astic Fantastic" he muisicalizes, " "fresh as they come"
I sigh and then I close the door, then I lay dead on the floor
he giggles n' shakes " oh the things that come out of my bum
that night I open a can of beans, " think I'll even the score"
the next day it is I who is tootin' it out with putrid air hums
Fart-tastic, fantastic" I chant as I vibrate, my musical door.
September 22, 2021
Sponsor Chantelle Anne Cooke
Contest Name Fart-tastic
A word, a word,
Another word,
Some syllables,
A metaphor,
A clever turn of phrase,
A spare alliteration,
A savvy observation,
A willing fuse,
A careless spark,
And then bam!
It shoots skyward,
It shimmers and sparkles,
Sizzles and pops,
Lights up the heavens,
With grandeur and pomp,
You don’t ever want it to stop,
But then poof,
Suddenly it's gone.
Don't be disappointed, though,
There’s plenty more
Where that came from.
After all, it's only fake poetry,
I just make this stuff up,
Dreaming linguistic pyrotechnics,
Drawing images and doodles,
Leaving meanings largely undefined.
Fake poetry and silent musicals,
The products of my overcurious mind.
(See pts 1 & 2 first please, it will make more sense <3)
I began flinching when people brushed past me.
Began checking doors twice, three times, four
Began doubting my own memory-- because
when everyone treats you like a liar,
You begin to genuinely wonder if your pain is real.
But it is.
I feel it every day.
In the tightness in my chest.
In the way l avoid eye contact.
In the way I talk.
Two years later, he walks free, his smile untouched
While I carry memories
stitched permanently
with pain.
He probably doesn't think about it. But I do.
Every time someone says
“You should have reported sooner.”
Every time someone says
“But he seemed like such a nice person.”
Every time someone in power shrugs and says
“It’s complicated.”
It is not complicated.
It's a system built to protect predators and punish survivors.
A system that tells girls they need to speak up, then shoots them down and labels them liars when they do.
So this is what I know now.
Speaking doesn’t guarantee anything.
It doesn’t guarantee someone will listen.
It doesn’t guarantee someone will care.
Sometimes you tell the truth
and the room just gets quieter.
Sometimes you tell the truth
and people decide it’s easier
not to believe you.
But that doesn’t change what happened.
And it doesn’t change who is responsible.
Systems like this depend on silence.
On doubt.
On people deciding it’s easier
not to get involved.
They depend on girls deciding
it’s safer to keep quiet.
And a lot of them do.
Because they watched what happened
to someone who didn’t.
But I already spoke.
And I’m not going to pretend it didn’t happen
just to make things easier for everyone else.
The truth doesn’t disappear
because someone in authority said it didn’t matter.
It doesn’t disappear
because people chose not to see it.
The truth is still here.
And so am I.
And I will keep speaking—
not just for me.
For every girl who’s afraid to speak.
For every survivor who has been silenced.
For every system that has failed us.
We cannot let silence protect predators anymore.
We cannot let fear decide who is believed.
We must demand accountability.
We must change the rules
so that speaking out
does not feel like survival.
This is not just my story.
It is ours.
And we will not be ignored.
Passion ignited on a strike
She lights the dark night sky
trailing a glowing inferno
scattering embers near and low, soo far and ever so high,
crawling across the hills ever searching
for a manner to quench her thirst
her sweltering footprints
branding her way
her unplanned escape a devastating curse
flaring vivid hues of freedom
she crowns trees and takes flight
her hot breath all consuming
only ashy detritus blankets this land, struck by this blight
courageous knights rush in on motorized wings
bravely jump from great heights
to scorched earth below
lionhearted warriors joust on ground
metal horses rally above
still she glides ever faster
down treacherous slopes
gusting wind at her back
eyes on what gives her hope
a ravine down below in the heart of the valley
so narrow its girth
that its depths are unknown
it calls her nearer
whispered promises
quenching her sitient soul
a whisper of freedom from ensuing foes
an end to all her troubles and woes
she dives down the cracked mouth of the abyss
and drinks her fill of its watery deaths kiss
smoky sunrise lights vistas inky colour of mourning
small embers of freedom hissing at droplets of rain
all that’s left of her drowned in the deep water gulley
and her feathers of freedom, now ashy snow
All seems dark, land lost to her terrible plight
return a while later and see what has birthed
shoots sprouting green through blackened charred earth
through culling wings of fire the red angel of death
set off to be free
now in her wake grows new life starting to thrive
if not for her affrighted quest for freedom
would this flourishing life even have survived
06.09.2021 - 08.03.2022