Long Small world Poems
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Seven hundred and sixty two feet from corner to corner. From the huge old elm tree in Dr. Rooney's front yard on one end, to the lamppost that sat outside my bedroom window on the other. That's how long the street that I grew up on is.
So who cares? Good question. It really is irrelevant isn't it? Well maybe. At least it was until one day when I went back and visited the old neighborhood after an absence of many years. That's when I realized how much shorter it had gotten while I was away. Time was when I would walk up to Washington Street on the opposite end from where I lived and look back, and it was a very long way. If I ran from end to end, I would be huffing and puffing by the time I collapsed on my front porch.
Sitting catty corner across the street from where I lived was the Lincoln Elementary School, surrounded by fields that ran uninterrupted the length of the street. Only the Noonan's house broke the symmetry, sitting there in solitary defiance halfway down the street. I never did know why it was there, but suspect it had something to do with the Noonan's getting there first.
Today the school is a nursing home, but everything else is still as it was, except of course, the field too has grown smaller, and the Noonan house isn't at all as large as it used to be.
I had a paper route back then. It encompassed several blocks of my neighborhood, with my dad being the last one to get his paper. It took most of the afternoon to deliver my route, given the distance and all. I wish it had been as small then as it seems to be today.
Anyway, that was a long time ago. I left for the Air Force right after high school. I remember waiting for the bus next to that old elm tree in Dr Rooney's yard. My folks moved to another part of town shortly after that, so I never did go back. Occasions to visit the town at all were few over the years. It was my dads funeral that finally brought me back for a few days.
Funny how the world keeps shrinking. Once distant destinations no longer are. California seems to be a lot closer to Boston then it once was, and when did Canada become just a few hours north of here. I guess maybe I shouldn't be surprised after all that my street ended up being only seven hundred and sixty two feet from corner to corner. Small world, isn't it?
we're living in an era of ignorance
we lost our innocense
at fourteen your too young to vote but old enough for death sentences
these politcians are hypocrits
for the atrocities that they commit we face imprisonment
durring this pro American sentiment
how could we forget the scores of poor ignored
while we finance a war
that bombs then rebuilds them
feed their children
while the ones back home
have to fend for their own
life is wonderul and miserable depends on the time frame
the birth of Almasi(my son) the death of Dwayne(my cousin)
I went bezerk it hurt clutching his blood soaked shirt
while he lay on the Earth leaking blood on the dirt
I cried to the sky please guide me father
at times this world is so dark I need night vision goggles
i lost friends to ignorance
bullets and jail stints
drug habbits and various patterns of bull ish
I've navigating through dangerous
streets trying to claim us
beast trying to tame us
friends turned to strangers
I have ducked heat from flammers
by mennacing strangers
thinking I will survive like gloria gaylor
its a small world but I got big plans
but it gets hard like trying to jog through quicksand
but I found GOD on both knees with cluthced hands
but kept getting invitations from the Devil to dance
so i went below the surface
became more observant
hand shakes are fake they dont mean a thing
a smile can be a predator preparing his fangs
I severed ties with friends who's minds were stagnated
had king pin dreams but never quite made it
friendships were torn
and habbits were formed
and the ones who escaped crack
heroin snatched
and I engaged in acts that were so unGodly
only he can judge me punish me or pardon me
watching this world makes me shed eye water
our sons get slaughtered and denegrated ours daughters
its the sign of the times cant you see that people
first it rained airplanes then the mail was lethal
ghetto youths indisputes they spray A.K s
suburban kids throw pipebombs in school hallways
after so many years of feeding violence to youths
I guess those chickens came home to roost
I look in the mirror and see the years gone
I can look beyond the glass out the window
To the yards of my childhood
I can smell the flowers and feel the grass ‘neath my feet.
I can hear the music blasting on the radio
Mama callin’ me for supper.
I yearn to go back to that danged town
I fought to get away and never look back,
I never wanted to live there again.
I guess there’s a piece of me
There in that little town.
The town is small and so are the events
You’re everyone’s business
You can get a break and can’t get away
You don’t even have a say
You go to and from and people protest
And those same people will still put you to the test
I yearn to go back to that danged town
I fought to get away and never look back,
I never wanted to live there again.
I guess there’s a piece of me
There in that little town.
I made it to the big town K.C,
Got myself a husband and a son and a place to live
Settled in and made a life, got a career
I swear I’ll never return to my best friend
Comfortable where I stand,
Happy where I am
I yearn to go back to that danged town
I fought to get away and never look back,
I never wanted to live there again.
I guess there’s a piece of me
There in that little town.
Well times are hard,
And people are ruthless in this cut throat time
Jobs are scarce and bills run high
You never know what you’ll hear at night
The people are small in this big town
Yeah people are small in this big town
I yearn to go back to that danged town
I fought to get away and never look back,
I never wanted to live there again.
I guess there’s a piece of me
There in that little town.
I guess the town is small
Just good ol’ boys and girls havin’ fun
Small place, small town, small world
People may talk and people may watch
But the biggest thing in that small town
Are the people after all.
I yearn to go back to that danged town
I fought to get away and never look back,
I never wanted to live there again.
I guess there’s a piece of me
There in that little town.
-Heather Birdwell 9/22/2009
When I was a kid on the bus,
I looked at all that surrounded us,
out the window I always gazed
seeing old fields, half-trees, half-hay,
beyond them rose a forest wall,
maples and pines, stately and tall,
past that rose a line of low hills,
I could never really get my fill.
My mind imagined trekking there,
discover mysteries if I dare,
what awaited in that country
always had an allure to me.
But as I grew it became clear,
for centuries folks had been here,
the forest and hills were settled long,
to other people they belonged.
‘No Trespassing’ posted everywhere,
made my young mind feel despair,
I thought I was a pioneer,
but my small world had no frontiers.
Of course then I became a teen,
travelled often with a ski team,
to the Catskills, Adirondacks,
upstate New York, it does not lack
wilderness to tempt outdoors souls,
whether summer warm or winter cold
it seemed an endless, vast expanse,
evergreens that held me entranced,
I trampled mountains, ancient stone,
walked America’s rocky bones,
and though it seemed ever empty,
things started to appear to me
that though it was a wild place,
humans had long known this space.
I saw names carved on mountain’s high,
chiseled in eighteen sixty-five!
I trampled down old logging roads
that my great grandpa must’ve known,
though I felt like a pioneer,
this no longer was a frontier.
As an adult it just got worst,
though I traveled and saw the world,
the wild west where cowboys play,
Scottish Highland’s misty days,
northern taiga filled with big bears,
but human sign was everywhere.
No hidden lands, no unknown stretch,
no place for people who feel best
away from laws, rules, and permits,
there’s nowhere left for us hermits.
Some say we’ll find it in the stars,
but the cost of that can stop the heart,
you can’t just walk to Mars freely,
and if you could, you couldn’t breathe.
With nowhere left to roam on Earth,
yet still burned by the wandering urge,
it’s hard for us poor pioneers
stuck on a world with no frontiers.
Words he formed.
Shells, pebbles, sorted by color
Straight grey lines
Curved watery blue
Rosy dots
Sand dollar phrases
drifting, floating, resting on the shore
Gathered decorative patterns
garland and seaweed
Expressed feelings
hand dug gully around
his small world filled with
salty water
And he lay down
safely on his island
Awaiting the surf, the tide,
pure white ripples of hope
to wash away the pain
Words he formed
with his fingers
folding air around
simmering sun
finally realizing
his thoughts had meaning
as nary a cloudy day
could be seen since…
He sent out his heart
It flew for him
Sent out his soul, surfing
in rhythmic coastal stanzas
lapping a lazy shore
measuring the distance
beyond a vertical eclipse
where water meets air
and the sky merges with his dreams
With eyes closed
his horizontal form
sails through time
closing chapters
and opening pages,
dog-eared memories in numerical order
At the count down of
5 he lands ashore
4 drapes his sea-green garments around self
3 gathers dollars, dignity
2 opens his eyes
1 thanks his therapist for the session
0 leaves, with a sense of regret.
***
June 16, 2017
Copyright © Chris Green and Darren White
I wont repeat this cycle
I wont repeat this nightmare
I love you I really do
You are my mother
And no matter what any of your abusive boyfriends or husbands say
I will always
and that is fact
That is true
I don't know if it was easier for you not to call on our birthdays
I just figured you were too poor
I can relate
Sometimes I would get upset
Sometimes I wouldn’t care
And I know sometimes you blame yourself and think you were never there
You were mom
You fixed dad
and got him to stop drinking
And now you’ve moved on and on
Round three of another match of verbal abuse and beatings
I know you and grandma never really got along
And I know dad was screwed over by some high school sweet heart
So he wouldn’t allow you a lot of things
And after all your pain they are back together
After like 17 years of psychological abuse and tears and frustration
and his debauchery shoved in your face
I still have a memory lane too
and know sometimes it’s easier to focus on the bad then the good
And I remember going to Disneyland
and how you were let in on all the women you knew and were friends with
Dad was diddling
as they chanted
It’s a small world
But mom
Don’t repeat the same mistakes
That would be like me rediscovering another place within the fire
I’m still stuck in the middle of a hard place
The weakest of the family being fed pills and counseling
As through me the age-old battle goes on
I know I'm having a hard time dealing with what you’ve been through
And no one wants to point any fingers of blame
And even though I have no idea who to believe
The joke I’m not telling
you could both blame it on the alcohol that destroyed you rmarriage
Drove your children crazy
And now apparently your still both stuck with emotional immaturity
Sorry
Not like I’m any better
Thrown away and shunned for running away from alcohol and drugs
Keeping my secrets from you because you’re both too fragile to handle my truth
The theme park was crowded. Elephants on roller coasters, mosquitos bracing the water slide, ferrets enjoying the ferris wheel and leopards shooting crack in the gallery. A myriad of personification and abundance of fairy tailed suggestions. ‘Its a small, small world’ blared from Magic Mountain as Cinderella dressed up as an indentured laborer in a fancy shoe shop. A comedy of terror ensued in the ghost train, conducted by a retired wall street banking giant resuming the corporate identity of a demon slayer. seemingly seeking redemption, but of course, he had another ace in his sleeve.
All animals were equal but of course the apocalypse had struck in 1984 and the Lord of the Flies was buzzing disguised as an orange clock, collected tickets and sold strawberry ice cream.
An English patient from a nearby lunatic asylum, thought he was a beetle, but Kafka had married Mary Antoinette and was sipping champagne from her braw. She, for once was not eating cake and was thus unveiling the myth of leavened bread at her altar. A merry go round of deception in the snake pit in which a contortionist was trapped in limbo and loin cloth from hell. Mary Magdalene teased him with with a vile of anti venomous serum and soothed his wavering agony in anticipation of saving the world.
Hot cross buns offered cold comfort, but the world was on withdrawal after management had banned coke as a sugar substitute. Sweet dreams were made of lactose free roach skin and the party dwellers reveled in aspirations and nightmares, elevated to prime position in the national canon. A truly amazing ode to joy and poignant distraction from the pawn shop of modern living.
But when the bell struck midnight and Dali melted his digital clock, all went back to the nothingness of the human condition. ‘Your shift starts in eight hours, nothing has moved because of a little fun in paradise’s ante chambers.’ Thanks God the crowd were already wearing their flannel night gowns. ‘Gotta live life to the full and heaven can’t wait.
I delicately savor your body with caresses, like a sculptor shaping the marble of life with tender touches,
And in your pure soul, I string dreams like pearls, reflecting the hidden light of desires,
When the moon hides and the stars appear, like lost fireflies on the deep and restless sky,
To feel the love that binds us again and again, a silk thread weaving our hearts in the same rhythm of eternity.
In the mystery of the night, under a clear starry sky, where silence becomes a melody of searching souls,
Whispers of love have crowned us, like a wreath of dream flowers, blooming only in darkness,
Your serene gaze, a mirror of desires, reflects a fire burning in the depths of my thirsty heart,
It is a fire that burns on hot nights, melting the distances between us like a dream fulfilled.
My hands tremble in their thirst for you, like the leaves of a tree bending toward the morning light,
And my heart flutters, longing for you, you know well, like a butterfly caught between the petals of a flower of light,
On my dry lips, I place your kiss, like a seal sealing promises from a dream,
And time stops without being told, and the moment becomes eternal in the light of unending love.
With every whisper, we lose ourselves in mystery, like two travelers discovering a world of their own,
And we immerse in the dream, without any clothes, vulnerable and pure under the protective veil of night,
The night is eternal to us, the moon a silent witness to our love that has never faded at dawn,
When morning comes with its timid rays, we remain alone in arid and silent dreams.
With closed eyes, I still feel you near, like a whisper gently caressing my soul,
In our small world, where love fits, like in a jewelry box hiding priceless treasures,
I delicately savor your body with caresses, and melt at once, blind and fulfilled by love,
And in this moment, unforgettable happiness, sipping love again in timeless, eternal time.
ADAM LOVES TO DOUBT
The hand of man touched the mind of God,
And the word became flesh!
Thus Adam was seeded, planted in the Garden of Eden.
Lord, I live in a sea of infinity, said he, yet there is no one here but me.
The sun burns my virgin brain, and my soul with ferule flame.
The plants and animals, short and tall, I named them all,
But, there are none here that out to me call.
There is the dance of the menagerie, but again, none dance with me.
Oh Lord, I am troubled, help me a mate, and my inexpiable desire slake.
So, I lay my head here among the stars teeming, dreaming with desires.
Make her with long arms like spiral galaxies, to love me, oh Sire;
Breasts like two pale moons, rising in a soft bed of morning glory.
Color her thighs like red-hot rainbows,
Bejeweled pillars inlayed, a fiery arch in heaven to span my fervent ache.
Her skin, make it akin to velvet fronds, dew drops in a morning fog,
Make her right Lord, fair as lunar light rising.
Make her voice like a thousand song- birds singing, birthing the blushing dawn,
Her pregnant lips, like butterflies collecting nectar from fragrant spring meadows.
No grain of sand am I, no mote of dust in a cosmic sky.
Are you so busy running infinity, that you have no time for me?
My small world is full of grateful grandeur, but my monumental heart is empty,
You have made it of gold, and filled it with coal.
Would that I could be a fly on the ceiling of the universe so high,
To understand your plan for man when Gods meet in secret to discuss what is human.
You wander randomly like a drunken hobo, your creation below,
What is our condition here? Do you know? Do you care?
Under the evening starlight, take my bones and make her a delight,
A rib to a summer’s breeze, and name her for the twilight.
Put flesh on my bone, so I am no longer alone,
Call her Eve, so to her I may cleave,
Do it Lord, so I may believe!
Form:
The town clock marks out the hours of the night;
Its pallid face looking down on the wet street below,
Empty save for the occasional swish of a car speeding
To a distant suburb. There is a brief glimpse of
A grim portrait of urgency, or frozen duet of
Snarling adversaries, or the happy laughing faces of
Lovers. Blank windowed shops cast pools of light on the
Glistening tarmac in competition to the high yellow flare of
Street lights.
But it is darkness that forms the stage
On which I walk. Deep shadows swallow the light,
Denying it power, denying it purchase in this world.
The shops soon end and their reminder of the busyness
And bustle of the day gives way to solitude.
My footsteps no longer echo between the shopfronts;
Now they sound only in my own small world, the
Curtained windows of homes too far away to reflect
My steady steps.
Town left behind darkness shrouds me, each step
Taking me further from the slow moving hands
And sightless face. As I walk, measuredly, like the ticking hands,
I catch glimpses of life in the neat houses that line the
Street. Here a teenage birthday, all frivolity and delight;
There the staid conformity of middle age – television, a
Cup of tea, an early night. And here, and there,
The warmth of seduction in frozen glimpses of passion, or
Passing of love, faint heard words of anger and rejection.
Ahead, darkness becomes absolute; no curtained windows to
Remind me of the rawness and tenderness of life, yin and
Yang. Only my steps, steady but resolute, their sound a
Cadence for my thoughts to follow in obedience. I think,
And therefore I am, except on this journey when thought
Leads only on into the darkness, and “I am” becomes
“I was” in my mind. The darkness ahead gently
Engulfs my past, and proposes my future. And far behind,
The hands of the clock mark out the hours of the night.