Long Slung Poems
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Where‘s The Bull?
A few years ago at the close of the morning worship service in the lobby of our church, a young teen greeted me with the words, “How are you doing Mr. Curtis?” My reply to him at the time was, “I’m hanging in there.” This was a time when the nation’s economy was in disarray, and my personal finances were not much better. Some weeks later I saw him again in the same area of the lobby, and he greeted me with the words, “Hi Mr. Curtis, are you still hanging in there?”. I almost answered him in the same manner as before, because things had not really gotten any better. However, I caught myself and replied by saying, “No, I’m not hanging in there. I have the bull by the horns, and he’s going down”.
I believe that the 'Bull statement' triggered something inside of me that made a big difference in the future outcome for my life and circumstances. No, my belief system did not change, but a “God Moment” came to the front and overpowered me to overcome any attitude of doubt or negativity that had existed in my spirit. A fresh fire was kindled, and a ‘knowing’ within me was born that in essence said to me that I did not have to ‘hang on’ or ‘hang in’ there for dear life. The fresh fire enabled me to stop hanging on to the tail of the bull to be slung about and around wherever the bull desired.
The bulls of life are always on the loose, and bulls will do what bulls do. We must decide and take courage to do what Christians do. Our bulls of life will never go down as long as we are fighting at the tail by hanging on. It is when we take on the bull by his horns that we are enabled to bring him to the ground.
At the time of the young man’s question, we were in a season of life unlike any we had faced before. The seasons of the year can be defined and generally described, but they are never the same. We know that they are coming and going all the time, but we never know the character and the magnitude of their impact. So is the case with the seasons of our lives.
So. What is your bull’s name today? Where is he, and where are you positioned in relation to the bull’s movements? The bull’s movements are always strong and are designed to destroy us. We must not be content with simply hanging on for survival. Because God is with me, I can trust him in the stormy seasons of my life.
10022014 cj PS
She sits on the bathroom floor
Hiding behind a tightly closed door
Afraid that prying eyes will see
What society has forced her to be
With fingers pushed halfway down her throat
On the remains of dinner she silently chokes
The taunting cries of her classmates in mind
Loudly calling her fat all the time
Just a size ten but not a three
Like the girls in magazines you see
Thighs that need to be as slim as a boys
Boobs need to be as large as flotation toys
He sits and stares at his pale skin
Apparently white is out, tan is in
Long hours spent on a tanning bed
Risking skin cancer to fit in instead
Only sixteen, muscles not developed yet
Need to be leaner and stronger he frets
And so the need to be more than he is drives
To bottles of steroids he soon arrives
The school bell rings, all the kids scatter
Except one lonely girl that seems not to matter
Classified as poor by the labels on her jeans
Not worth socializing with by those that have means
The parking lot is filled with such flashy cars
Kids talking on cell phones, their heads in the stars
Gucci sunglasses draped across their nose
Life as an stereotype dawns clear and slows
Everyone wants to emulate a great big star
Society tells them it's no good to be who you are
You have to be better than everyone else you see
The thinner, the tanner, the richer, the better you'll be
Girls should be blond, blue eyed and demure
Sexy and seductive, rich and not poor
Boys should be muscular yet tanned and lean
With smiles so white they blind when seen
Everyone needs to drive a fast fancy car
Designer clothes are the very best by far
For all those that don't fit the wonderful dream
The world doesn't even see them it seems
Too much hype splashed across billboards to the young
Expectations are too high but are haphazardly slung
Into the schoolyard the hype does quickly spread
Feeding egos and turning them into bullies instead
Those that have more and who fit the desired mold
Hassling those that haven't reached the gold
Next thing you know there's a kid with a gun
Trying to silence the voices of everyone
Then we wonder what happened to him
Well the truth is, he just couldn't fit in
Too many stereotypes not enough understanding
Life just became too absolutely demanding
I grew up in a garden paradise
large white house in the country
sheltered by ancient oaks and naievity
passed idyllic days in childhood bliss
never ran it much through my mind before
until the day
I walked two hours with my life packed up on my back
set out on a sunny autumn morning
running on a four days empty belly, and some strong black coffee
met a tall, thin man along the way
asked me if I could play the bass slung over my back
I replied yes and he gave me his number
Three quarters of the way there the baby's stroller
gave one last groan of protest
and buckled under the weight of the bags hung on the handle
spilling everything onto the street
"These things can be kind of tricky,"
said the young man who helped me scoop everything up,
explaining how it used to happen
when he pushed around his younger siblings.
"See you around sometime,"
he offered up
Later we arrived,checked in at the front desk
no one else knew we were at the shelter
days here are passed aimlessly
in sedated daydreaming
nights are spent shivering with cold
and exhaustion
I can no longer count
the number of times I've been broken before
(I try not to think about it)
and pieced back together, but never quite the same,
I could tell you how the closet floor smells like mildew
when soaked through repeatedly with tears,
or describe the way his black eyes bulge in anger,
describe how every little fleck and bubble gathers at the corners
when his mouth froths white with hate,
and the vilest obscenities, and how after a while
you start to ask yourself if they're true
Armed with all the pamphlets from the front office
I was gonna do all the right things
they say it takes about five tries before you're successful
but what do you tell to the child who says, "Daddy bad, daddy gone?"
I almost made it this time, and then
He dropped by, told me to pack up my stuff,
we took the bus home
past the place where the young man helped me gather up my life off the road
past the spot where the tall, thin man gave me hope
and his number
- The baby was excited about his first ride
I'm back in the same old spot again,
little has changed but time
and knowing that once, just once,
I almost made it
...now I watch the birds out my kitchen window
close my eyes and ...
I'm almost free
Written with admiration for Tom Cunningham ~ a gentle poet
maligned by one who really casts an aura of darkness
My smile is genuine and reaches to my eyes.
I do not wear a mask, nor a cloak of disguise
and I post poetry in my given Christian name.
From the hand of one it was written in a claim
that I cast shadows of dark energy around me.
Should I assume that I'm thought of as beastly?
Someone thinks that my spirit has gone awry.
I have to shake my head in disbelief as I decry,
"If you liken me to a sinister, malevolent being
I would ask what movies have you been seeing?"
Call me rude names if that makes you feel witty,
but each shines a gleaming light on your lubricity.
I'm not insulted by the sticks and stones thrown,
nor do I write anything that I would ever bemoan.
I will champion myself, my friends and my nation,
never seeking battle, nor in fear of confrontation.
I am not a troll, a gang member, or wolf in a pack,
so don't falsely accuse me. I won't take your flack.
There is no darkness surrounding my aura, I'm sure.
It may be that your malicious thoughts are impure.
You struggle with defining what's right from wrong.
Is there anyone with whom you can get along?
Friendships are important and you would be wise
to recall that poets should be a coalition of allies.
You're entitled to your opinions, and I am to mine,
but if they are different, don't moo like a bovine.
"Spiteful words," you said, my friends and I write.
Well, in this case I'll say you're absolutely right.
I've been told that rebuttals are a waste of my ink
but not a drop is wasted if it makes people think.
Think of the insult to a poet belittled by another.
One who treats everyone as a sister and brother.
Tom wrote of the bloodbath Putin draws in Ukraine
then selfish comments were made that left a stain
on his words that were written to ring out in truth.
Don't sling mud on other poet's by throwing a stone.
Give voice to your beliefs. Write one of your own.
And now, you're thinking, "You just slung mud."
Yes, I did, in hopes that it will land with a thud.
I don't relish penning negative lines of contention,
but sometimes things are in need of attention.
I'd rather write about Santa and Christmas cheer,
than calling out snide people who taunt and jeer.
On learning to become a guru...
The following artfully crafted back in the day
(actually poetic endeavor presented below
written a few scant years ago) in response to
unexpected positive feedback received on
the most popular social media platform.
Unbeknownst to this unsuspecting witty mortal,
a reverberation attributed to butterfly effect
linkedin to hotmail twittering Facebook member,
who resides within Bhutan, his dignified volition
accorded me magnanimity titled sage without any
influential collusion from Russians bestowed yours
truly with said honorably distinguished appellation,
which humility of mine humbly accepted without a
protestation, though never would I brazenly adopt
spiritual holiness, yet flattered to share such rare
pronouncements, when unsolicited feedback lobbed
in my direction (way before advent of Information
Technology Revolution) often tendered, kindled, and
belittled this gentle human, sans when bullies slung
byte ting bit torrent loathsome scandalous red zingers
targeting personal vulnerabilities, asper being under
socially withdrawn, painfully shy, plagued with speech
impediment (severe nasality) caused by submucous
cleft client, plus weighing where needle budged from
absolute zero pounds, topped with passive demeanor
susceptibilities conveniently converging to establish
this bruised Earthling ideal choice as scapegoat, no
kidding with dread to endure endless days, weeks,
months...a lifetime channel of opprobrious, noxious,
malicious emotionally demonic, cannibalistic, barbaric
abominable, damnable, horrible diatribes chipping
(dale lee) at what measly self confidence shielded
fragile psyche fast crumbling into grist for hungry
caterpillar, unbeknownst that flight path randomly
followed by a representative of Lepidoptera order,
would ineluctably set very subtly infinitesimal
fluctuations within air (currently supplying biota
with requisite oxygen), also training perturbation.
Patience Young Grasshopper mine alter ego spoke
when yours truly figuratively chomping at the bit
more accurately fretting with anxiousness when
boyhood body of mine underwent metamorphosis
impossible mission to thwart biological transformation.
My mate Jim and I were tired of working for a boss.
We decided to buy a truck and give the 9 to 5 a toss.
We set up a little business, taking produce to the stalls.
It was just an idea we had about the time fortune calls.
We had a load of melons headed up to Jurien Bay,
They had to be at the markets bright an early next day.
Making good time, we would get there before dawn.
It had rained a tidy sky full, the road was rough and worn.
Suddenly the truck went slip slidin, we thought a flat tyre.
As we spied the scene she was sinking in a huge quagmire.
Now the burden of our troubles seemed too much to carry.
Near us was a house, we found out, belonged to Big Harry.
He was a retired farrier and a horseman dont you know it .
His reputation we heard was that of just an old poet.
Jim and I we pushed like Samson and Hercules,
All the good that did was just bury us to our knees.
Suddenly, we see a sight better than cavalry forces,
It was Big Harry leading two huge fine draught horses.
Over his arm he had slung harness and yoke and chains
Harnessing them, and there’s only the chain that remains.
“ Will ya axel take the stain? “ he asked in a shaky old voice.
“Yeah it should” I replied, so excited I was ready to rejoice.
We helped the poor feeble old man fix the chains to the truck.
Now stand back you two, there will be all sorts of flying muck.
Then he started giving orders to his two big handsome steeds.
His voice grew strong and powerful , orders were not pleads.
Words resplendent flowed, the beasts pushed to the core.
He cursed and swore an bullied them into giving a little more.
Those two beautiful horses pulled with all their might,
He shouted as the horses strained, ”it’s in a glue pot all right”
The golden horse called Ranger made a slip and nearly fell.
Big Harry let loose with language that’d make em blush in hell.
With one almighty heave the truck surged forward , higher.
It rolled up and out , free from the hold of that quagmire.
In a feeble old voice, “there ya go lads, thank Ranger n Thunder”
Folks will say he’s just an old poet, but to us he’s a bloomin wonder.
For half an hour Dix had rode true
when the canyon opened up wider.
In front of him five stubbly men
sat around a roaring fire.
The leader Dixon recognized,
as his sifted through Santa’s sack.
He was an outlaw known far and wide
by the name of Randsome Mack.
Their eyes fastened upon him
when he and his horse rode into sight,
every one of the men had guns,
they all looked ready for a fight.
Dixon looked up to the skies,
but he could not see a sleigh.
He had left plenty of bits of scarf,
had Santa somehow lost his way?
He swallowed deep as Randsome rose,
and glared deep with hateful eyes.
“It seems we got us a trespasser.
Boys, let’s put him down the mine—”
But Dix spurred forward as he spoke,
catching the bandits all off-guard.
Before they could could drew, he scattered them
and seized the sack with a strong arm.
“Get him!”angry Randsome cried,
as Dixon turned and dashed through.
“I want that sack, I want it all!
Run down that blasted fool!”
The race was on through canyon walls,
half covered in ice and snow.
Dix was ahead by a good span,
but could he get clear? He didn’t know.
On he pounded, but his foes gained,
not weighed down by Santa’s sack.
If this kept up Dix knew that he
would never made it back.
But a ringing of bells sounded above,
and a shadow raced on past.
Santa’s sleigh soared above the gorge,
his flight blew and icy blast!
It slowed the bandits in pursuit,
they ducked to cover their heads.
Then Old Saint nick skimmed with snow,
with the runners of his great sled.
A wall of white tumbled on down,
landing on the bandit’s far below.
They shouted and sputtered, motionless,
socked in by a mountain of snow!
By the time the dug themselves out,
Dixon and his horse were too far gone,
out or sight and far beyond
the reach of Randsome’s throng.
When Dix cleared the rocky canyons
and rode out into the cold parklands,
he found Santa and his reindeer team
pulled up by an aspen stand.
When he approached, Santa laughed,
and slung an arm around his back.
“My boy I knew you would pull through.
We got Christmas back on track!”
CONCLUDES IN PART III.
Me and the missus live in decent
sturdy accommodations (formerly
Schwenksville Elementary School
ofttimes referred to as prison,
and manager as the de facto warden),
albeit not so shabby nor chic low income
quite modest (rather unmatchable cost wise)
low slung building we rent,
for mere dime a dozen
pennies on the dollar,
which facility lacks no shortage
of gossip mongers
with mail delivery major event
whereby many old people smelling of unguent
housing faux superman
thumping flabby chests nsync
with hooking thumbs around
suspenders feigning to be affluent,
and self important as secret double agent
yeah, minus the countless snitches,
livingsocial buzzfeeding rumors
outside our one bedroom apartment
at Highland Manor ranks
as satisfactory ascent
to appease our taste,
and general environmental ambient
aspects compared to other
(mice and roach infested)
housing previous situations of ours
so, despite most every nosy, ancient
snooty, hoity toity...tenant,
particularly one butch,
cock eyed louey, facial accent
a perfect spectacle for circus big-tent
single bucked sharp front tooth
sparkles, mocks, glistens...
as if brushed with Pepsodent
of course displayed "FAKE"
seventh heaven-sent
friendliness, when poor us
being penniless with just tencent
copper piece experienced warm welcome
short time after moving here
(five plus years since July 1st 2022),
but demeanor thereafter went
postal stamping like the dickens
as if me an unrepentant
jokester, nonetheless yours truly minds
against hateful words adamant
lee averse to cast aspersions,
cuz a friendly gesture linkedin
preference to be cogent practicing
what this atheist doth silent
lee preach, sans attempt tubby tolerant
in the face of someone belligerent
attentive to credo, dogma, ethos
while alive in world be tolerant
of others, whether he/ she wuzzent
pleasant recalling days of yore,
I felt disgusted when hell-bent
to hurl expletives (adding insult to injury)
if bad mouthed me, thus
object lesson not requiring fervent
fanatical religious fervor
improving health of Clark Kent.
* * *
The trapper looked for the oddly-dressed man,
but could no longer see him, or his tent.
He glanced around, so supremely confused,
now where the devil had that darned fool went?
He searched along the whole of the lake shore,
but of the strange man he found no sign,
scratched his head and wondered if the thin air
was somehow playing tricks on his mind?
Though a bit unnerved, he just gave a shrug,
gathered up his gear and headed back down
to where he and Postlewaite had made their camp
in a ravine on a patch of good ground.
Ol’ Post already had a small fire going,
he was preparing the stew for that night,
the trapper walked up, said,”Post, I just had
myself one hell or a troublin’ sight.
“I saw up on that pond I found yesterday
a man in the most peculiar clothes,
his pants made of fabric they use on wagons,
they were slung down on his hips real low.
“He had no hat perched high up on his head,
and spectacles made out of some dark glass,
his coat looked like fleece, but also like cloth,
with fancy leather boots, laces and brass.
“His tent was some cloth that I’ve never seen,
but that wasn’t the strangest of it,
he kept saying that to trap in these peaks
I would have to get myself a permit!?”
Ol’ Post looked at him, said,”Gilborne, my boy,
did you get into the corn whiskey?”
The trapper shook his head,”Nary a drop,
I swear to your, this is what I did see!”
Post looked the young man over once more,
then gave a shrug and let out a big yarn,
“Don’t know what to tell you, since we’re alone,
no good way to explain what you saw.
“Maybe it is like the Injins tell it,
’cause I’ve heard it’s said by the Blackfeet,
that ghosts live up here in crannies and cracks,
haunt the high places of these cold Rockies.
“But we’ll keep an eye out, in case I’m wrong,
being careful out here is always good,
but this here fire just ain’t hot enough,
see if you can go scrounge up some more wood.”
Gil went about searching for dry branches,
wondering what he’d really seen on the strand,
yet neither trapper nor, nor Eamon,
would ever again see the other man.
I got a job,
got only one thing to do
My job is simply this,
it is to protect you
Nowadays, I guess you could say,
I would be called a bodyguard
But back in the day,
when bodyguards were a terror,
I was known by another name,
I was called an armorbearer
But the most famous armorbearer
that you never even heard of,
was the one who bare the shield
for the man whom the Philistines loved
That's right, Goliath
He was a powerfully strong, giant of a man
The tip of his spear was bigger than your hand
With his huge, enormous sword,
he would cut you in half
And as he fed your body to the birds,
he'd let out a blood curdling laugh
Can you imagine being his armorbearer?
You had to be a stone cold killer,
you had to love shedding blood wherever
Now this unknown armorbearer
carried Goliath's shield into every battle;
deflecting wayward blows,
stopping any well-aimed arrows
He was the imposing man with the shield,
who went before an even scarier stature of a man
But the Holy Bible records how their end began
They called out young David one fateful day,
trash talked him like he was just another weak prey
David replied: you come to me with a sword, spear and a shield
To the uncircumcised, the God of Israel would never yield
Then David picked up five stones,
chosen by the Hand of God
And slung one towards Goliath with the velocity of a gunshot
That stone sank deep into the giant's forehead,
and he fell to the ground, killed straight dead
Then David went up to Goliath's body,
got the giant's sword and cut off his head
Now the question that needs to be asked,
what happened to the armorbearer?
The man with the shield who always protected Goliath,
did he die, did he kill himself, did he flee?
When David cut off Goliath's head,
where in the world was he?
Perhaps you can explain this mystery to me
Maybe this is how this aphorism came to be,
killing two birds with one stone, now makes perfect sense, y'see
I believe only half of the story was told:
Goliath was indeed killed,
and I'm persuaded the armorbearer was also
1 Sam 16:21; 17:4-7, 40-45; 31:1-6