Long Slumbers Poems
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We went on the Norfolk Broads
In September of 2019
Before we'd ever heard of Covid
With the globe as it's scene.
It was the first time I'd seen a kingfisher!
It sparkled like a gem!
It zipped along the draping branches
That covered the rivers hem.
The herons made me laugh a lot!
They stood confident and proud.
" Check out this profile as you glide by!
Let me hear that camera clicking sound! "
The lollaping laps of water
That gently rocked the boat
Lulled us into peaceful slumbers,
Safe, secure, afloat!
It just so happened that family friends
Were also there that week.
So we often joined up
And decent restruants we would seek.
We had our evening meal one night
At a place that fed generous portions.
We didn't anticipate how much.
The cost was cheap, no price extortions.
I chose the pork chop dinner.
I could have one chop or two.
In previous places they were small
So I didn't have a clue
How huge these chops would be!
They took up half of a giant plate!
So my advice is "Always ask the size!"
The meal was worth the wait.
Though this meal was massive,
To my surprise I ate it all!
I left this restaurant feeling
Like an overinflated ball!
It truly was a lovely week,
Novelty and new.
I'd definitely go on the broads again!
There's so much more exploring to do!
Written 13th January 2022
For the MY FAVOURITE VACATION IN RHYME contest.
Sponsor: L MILTON HANKINS
I shall not envy the upstart's polished gait,
Or wish myself as old knights in diamonds
Hued to bamboozle familiar souls and eye,
Flattered by aping pals and ersatz blondes.
For swanky gait soon in quiet slumbers lies
In darkest gloom beyond men's urging eyes;
Where kowtowing lip trills no ego-oiling tune
To laud vain legs that all wise sense impugn.
Since old knights and their fabled crystals fall
Into gloomy abysms past all plagiarized cheer,
And their wide glows sheer shifting dreams be;
Which deft poet thereon docks his sailing soul?
As for manipulable eyes and souls of fan-stars,
And idol blondes cued to flatter clumsy knights;
Are not both simple wit and truth strictly averse
To all such visionless ego-trip and short-sights?
Give upstart parvenus and 'knights' whole pomp,
I'll claim the simple logic they so mulishly tromp!
Ticks imperceptibly further from tocks
Sally-anne gracefully brushing her locks
Perusing the papers in yesterday's socks
One eye on the news on the old goggle box
Lawns that want mowing, maybe today
No firm decision on that, either way
The daffies sway gentle their livery gay
As early the spring edges out winter grey
Wave at the neighbour out washing his car
Seems in no hurry, he's not going far
Exaggerate motion of tipping a jar
Inviting a post dinner trip to the bar
Somebody passing outside shares a laugh
While yellow billed blackbird agitates bath
Fido brings slippers, wife calls him staff
Then aerates the logs to enliven the hearth
Upon us the day when no desk shall tether
And only the mower shall fret over weather
A shower means trim the lawn next week or never
Well maybe not never, simply whenever
Dinner now served at family table
Sneak Fido a tidbit whenever I'm able
Courteous chat with mum in law, Mable
Kids stifle giggles, she's slightly unstable
Now Mable snoring, I do the dishes
Kids drying up conceal Facebook wishes
Mum by the pool sprinkles pellets for fishes
Whimsically lost in multi-finned swishes
And when gibbous moon gives off scant shadow light
And gone is the sun that shines somewhere else bright
Retire to our slumbers prepare for the fight
Batteries energise over the night
For five days or six we shall toil away
Earn twenty four hours to rest and to play
So never forfeit the day some people pray
This one day in seven, the Sabbath, Sunday.
Always the plastic containers,
leftovers maturing stacked in gelid wastes
where pork slumbers among the peppers,
chicken spooning with onions and cabbage.
The polar remains of once tropical meals
transformed into undocumented containers
to be opened far too late.
A curried hash so ad hoc that it could be
the flotsam of a ravenous hurricane.
Zipper bags squelch under groping hands,
carefully wrapped comestible debris
speaks to the eyes more clearly
than any warning sign could.
Dinners and snacks survive
as half-eaten life-forms
buried behind a white doored crypt.
Some, a few only
may be resurrected, only to be boiled
into innominate concoctions
by a cook who once loved them
way too much.
Look! Can you see? Out of the window?
Snowflakes are falling, white blankets are forming.
Patience, little one,
Soon it will be quilted and quiet.
Not far away, three small mammals are doing their sleeping:
The dormouse, pipistrel and the solitary hedgehog -
Mystical prickled pig of the hedgerow.
Ssh, she's away with the fairies.
Snug in her nest, may her slumbers be blessed.
One in a million,
She's a spherical urchin
Curled tight on a cushion of twigs.
Hedgehog is dreaming, snuffling,
To chobble on tanklements of millipede and earwig.
No, no, no!
No mediaeval harbinger of doom -
She's a bristly broom,
Self-anointed by toad skin and poo,
She brushes in spring anew.
And in the half-lit, moonlit summers,
Her little donnies will write spells -
Not ‘ills’, with her quills,
As trails of silvered cursive script
In the glistening ink of snails -
Near nanny’s pots and pails on the patio.
Later, little one,
Her thorny needles will stitch cobwebs of autumn
Between the railings on the hill,
Knitting together a tapestry of seasons.
Shapeshifting.
Bewitching.
Already noticeably marked
increase in daylight
yours truly courtesy affected
qua heliotropic phenomenon
finds me noggin gently being tugged
upward and westward ho toward sun
after dark mine talking head
rests downward and eastward.
Soon very indistinct
environmental intimations
regarding onomatopoeic
ubiquitous murmurings,
whereby old man winter
ever so faintly
relinquishes, loosens, forsakes...
Judas Priest iron maiden grip
upon emergent biosphere
suddenly awakened when
Mother Earth generates
invisible signals transmitted
across world wide web
analogous to conductor
standing on podium
with baton in her/his hand
orchestra playing on cue
perhaps choice selection
Rite of Spring
work by Russian composer Igor Stravinsky
or Flight of the Bumblebee
written by Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov.
Soon dormant species will exhibit rebirth
out their linkedin hibernation
flora and fauna tentatively
begin to issue forth out their slumbers
shoots poke thru across terra firma
insync with twittering tweeting creatures
hint viz verdant and/or fecund potential
ready to burst forth and proliferate
instinctively trumpeting joie de vivre.
Sensational show stopping, eye catching
breathtaking... parade of sights and sounds
await buzzfeeding eyes and ears
about six weeks hence,
within mine home box office
here at Highland Manor apartments
quite affordable rent
allows, enables and provides
radiant quiescence, preponderant observance,
nonresistant magnificence, jubilant innocence,
exuberant deliverance,
concurrent buoyant abundance.
Accordingly and allegedly other than
meteorologists plenti schooled
ascertaining onset of temperate air
more particularly otter den non humans
unassumingly (ferreted out), who bear
the tidings, when that season
of rebirth dawns with crystal clear
blue skies, and terrain where deer
and antelope eagerly play without despair
purportedly realized, reassured, recounted...drear
re: days vamoosed foretold by
Punxsutawney Phil on Groundhog Day
Grandpa gathered his nephews around to hear one of his famous stories.
It happened truly, many, many years ago. The children loved his tales.
A hired thief, a poisonous dart, in the middle of the night.
He was well-trained to attack in profound silence.
He entered the cave where the dragon and his princess slept.
He shot straight at the nostril. Soon the beast lay still,
But not before it swished its large tail in acute pain.
The princess knew that trouble was afoot and ran and rang
The bell hangs in the chimney of an old ruined edifice.
The people of High Ridge realized that something was amiss,
The mayor galloped towards the cave and then up the mountain
And saw an army, with weapons well outfitted, amassed readily to attack.
The people of High Ridge were usually peaceful and certainly not
So well arrayed to defend themselves. Despair was everywhere.
The Princess wise in lore struck up a fire and threw in it her magic herbs.
Smoked filled the cavern and an old man quickly appeared.
“Who dares wake me from my slumbers, I am now old for such pranks.”
The Princess knelt and asked for pardon and addressed the mighty sorcerer
That he might help the people of High Ridge in their dire plight.
The old sorcerer stroked his white long beard and surveyed the cavern,
Examined the young dragon that lay prostrate as if dead.
He withdrew the poisoned dart from its nostril and breathed on it.
Slowly the beast woke, was given a potion for strength and
With the princess, they flew high up on the mountain and surveyed
Their enemies marched towards High Ridge. Soon they saw the beast,
Fire spewed from its mouth and the army quickly dispersed.
Bells rang, and a feast was proclaimed for now High Ridge was saved.
And what were you, grandpa, the children asked. The sorcerer?
Of course not, the old man replied. I was the mayor. And all had a laugh.
First buds emerge in velvet cocoons
As dank, dark mornings transform
Into frost clad, bright, clean-aired dawns.
Grass laden heavy with dew,
Nectar of nature to sustain awakening creatures.
From deepest winter slumbers,
To drink deep the anticipation held in each drop.
Static in the air, in our hair, as crunched grasses
Make way for warming days, milky moons,
And pearlescent sun shards melting
The cold of winter soil.
Grass, long since recoiled after long summer
Parching, burnt and bruised,
Now tender and sweet, shoots pushing
Up through the loamy layers of frost bitten ground.
The scents of spring, almost imperceptible
Yet nonetheless I feel them set my belly to flight
The excitement for some unknown event,
As though a celebratory feast,
Honoured to be invited to.
Tingling in extremities, no longer from cold
But now in joy, in pleasure,
In the fruitfulness we know to come to pass,
When spring finally announces her arrival
Once more.
With shivers cold upon the hill
Words chill my heart much colder still
With tempest howls or'e chimney tops
Such howling sounds forgiving not
Angry screams and threatening shouts
The poet's wrath..he cries he pouts
He gnashes teeth without his pen
With wailing words he can't begin
The slumbers chain has been forsaken
By day his story will not awaken
Who can I choose to heed the call
For saving fate of poets all?
Too swift upon the shadow lies
We need your help or VERSE WILL DIE !
Please poet guest, Miss Guzzi's best
will save the night.., in this contest!
Continued from James Goff/John Loving lll
I am aware
How the stars shine in her eyes,
Like pools of black waters for a mage to scry.
How the wind blows softly when-
She, in her graceful darkness
Raised her arms to the heavens
Casting the clouds aside
To let my eyes gaze in awe of the starry night.
I am aware
Of the depth of her heart
How her darkness consumes her light and
Her light consumes her dark.
How in her very being, I see
The Universe in all its glory.
I am aware
Of her tired eyes
As she sat in solitude
Singing the songs I have only heard in dreams.
How we float in an unending sea of darkness
'We'--balls of energy, darkness and light.
How we live on
Though our bodies have died.
I am aware
Of her heart
That felt none of the world
How in her last days
She had smiled for she had lived.
And once again with starry eyes
She turned to me with a jaded smile:
"I am no longer Human".
My consciousness,
Entangled with every being in existence
Since I first heard her voice.
And still today
While drifting off to deep slumbers, I hear-
The songs she had sung-
That appeared and disappeared
Within my forgotten dreams.