Long Sparsely Poems
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They killed her lover. She just could not forget.
The raven circled thrice around the old oak,
But settle silently on her wide shoulders.
Dark was the raven, dark the woman’s dress
Dark the environment, all dark except for
The glowing sanguine hair that fluttered in the breeze.
She stood tall in front of the old sparsely lit castle.
No eerie sound echoed in the dark corridors,
No black candles lit any of the bleak rooms.
Only ravens cawed huskily as they flew
Around the tall turrets or rested on ugly gargoyles.
The dark woman moved towards the main door.
Her eyes glowed in a flaming carmine power.
She looked up towards the ugly low clouds.
Power exuded from her and the storm began.
Electricity snaked down and hit the upper balustrades.
Hellish fire sprang up and soon the castle was in ruins.
Revenge completed, she turned and walked silently away.
One day they’ll burn her at a stake. She shrugged.
She was not afraid of death. The crow cawed hoarsely.
Though I posted the following poem
(B)efore (C)ovid, a sense
of glee donned my being
the notion arose to trumpet anew
said literary handily crafted endeavor.
Not far from here – Perkiomen Valley -
Schwenksville, Pennsylvania
regular folks going about their business
unwittingly participated in history,
a couple scant few years
after the American Revolution.
Two hundred forty three
(12.3 score) years ago
countless stripling soldiers
strapping farming homeboys
healthy agrarian lads
raised among generations
unseasoned lads in summer re:
offspring original settlers heirs
family acreage encompassed
wide uninterrupted forested swaths
across sprawling vistas
sparsely populated enclaves,
now heavily industrialized
lovely bones occupying
unmarked never known graves
buried amidst avast
cleft rapacious urbanization
long forgotten innocent youths
hailing within then bucolic
Montgomery, Delaware and Chester county
forsook their young precious lives
voluntarily promising sons
risking life and limb
more often former versus latter
sacrificing stripling flesh
encompassing urbanized tracts
quite familiar to yours truly
suddenly made aware
unbeknownst till yesterday
informative literary handiwork
titled "A Glimpse of Freedom"
engagingly written by Douglas Shupinski
details innocently naive country bumpkins
sacrificing potential sweat of brow,
albeit grueling labor
fostering holistic existence
transforming boyz to men
hardened green soldiers
into battle weary fighters
regarding, kickstarting, envisioning
inchoate cause named freedom
emancipating fledgling America
against British throne
awareness percolates,
perturbs, permeates psyche
synchronizing, manifesting, galvanizing
how past historical events
within close proximity,
where I mostly resided
since birth, now experience
absorption, communion, edification...
with dead souls
nearly deathly quiet
only most perceptive can detect!
"And I rejoiced in being what I was:
In the lilac change, the white reptilian calm,
In the bird beyond the bough, the single one,
With all the air to greet him as he flew..."
From: "The Rose", by Theodore Roethke
One much given
to introspective self absorption,
little inclined to action,
I record this plaintive piece.....
The years go by and, though I age,
I am still the lone, unwanted one.
Early it was I learned
to embrace pain, or to avoid it.....
never to invite, through any expectation,
added disappointment.....
penning solitary lines,
mere mental meanderings.....
My drab world,
all dry sand and clouded sun,
sparsely populated,
was a nearly vacant, arid desert.
My laurels for achievements
I, and others, immediately devalued.
Nothing I did could
be worthy of a lauding.....
no good could come from
an unwanted one,
one outside the pale.....
not from such a joyless one.
The years go by, and still,
I am I.....the lone, unwanted one.
Shuttered birds flutter from balmy bough
Shedding feathery cloak that winter's chill did endow
Fueling grounded wings with solar beams
Pairing together in reconnoitering teams
Scouting hill and dale, Spring's contraband to glean
Garnishing their bunkers with bristling thigs and thatched screen
Prating loudly in fecund court; feathers carefully preen
In rhapsodic chorus their prancing feet to and fro careen
Dancing in harmony; their mating anthem rings
Matriarch's incubating wings over fertile plaster clings
In due course, waddling, furry chicks from each blanched shell springs
Frugal pilots navigate their sparsely furnished compound
Probing each nook; scouring each mound
Pulse and liquids their drills and talons impound
With nutritious cargo in tow homeward bound
Returning to nursery, satiating each bleating sound
What is wrong with using "not"?
It is a negative to an eloquent adjective, verb or noun
Simply the opposite state of being; which one should NOT frown
For programmers, "not" is a logical complement
which helps us filter-out things we do NOT want
and is used sparsely and NOT to flaunt.
By simply twisting our thought at 180-degrees,
it's used to portray an abrupt reversal image in our mind.
A quick look at a mirror, and NOT you will find.
Affix a k-, yet "knot" still sounds the same
but it will help keep our things secure.
From our pretzels, shoes and the ribbon-wrapped gifts we procure.
Add an s-, and the children will be amused.
Defiance is in its nature, is it NOT?
That is, to disgust their friends with each others snot.
So, to be or NOT to be
The Last Shift
I worked because I needed the money.
That was my only reason.
Who else would want to work the holiday(s)?
No one, surely not anyone.
My first job as caretaker, taught me…
everything I needed to know, but never…
leaned until my shift.
The old people were quiet, most of them.
Not all of them. Some of them.
Room six was sadly coughing. It seemingly would not stop.
Room seven had taken a bad fall and was sleeping fitfully.
Down the hall there was Ms. Burner, “Is that you Henry?” weeping…
I thought I was going to die. No one told me what to expect.
What things were really like.
I prayed, “Lord, get me through until the sun comes up.”
The music was very low, and far away. Christmas…
How nice? The director, had put up a Charlie Brown tree,
and a few cards were sparsely placed about at the entry desk.
My job… to walk the isle, check the board, and make sure…
nothing happened.
Down the hall I walked. Nervous, my first day on the job, even if it was a night.
A beeping far away. Then water running. A rush of wind.
The smell of a storm, mixed with flowers?
My heart thought to call out, but I did not.
The night went well.
There were cheerful smiles in the morning, as if someone had switched a light…on.
Six had stopped coughing. She got better in the weeks that followed and went home.
Seven, had no break at all. At the next doctor visit they could not find any injury no matter what test they gave her.
Ms. Burner. She died that first night I was on duty. The angels came. She was not crying.
She was laughing and smiling…
Now I work all the holidays.
I also pray every night, “Lord, get me through until the sun comes up.”
as I believe he was listening very closely.
All the water here
and now in the universe above
flows from a forever fountain
recycled in time and space.
Here, before, then, and here again.
It is billions of years old
older than the oceans
on our Earth,
on our rare and blue Planet Water.
adrift in the sparsely wet
and wildly churning,
expanding and aging Universe.
The water I drink,
that once quenched
the thirst of a dinosaur,
or within which eels swam,
was formed before time began:
Two Hydrogens from the Big Bang
One Oxygen from old exploded stars.
The water in the rain,
falling on my skin;
in the tears I shed from eyes,
in the sweat forming on my brow,
may have crossed ancient seas,
been frozen in ancient ice caps
flowed in fern-lined forest streams
where Pterosaurs once soared
through the mists.
Mist becomes clouds
dark clouds shed rain
to rivers, ponds, lakes.
We must drink forever to sustain
our water-based heritage.
To keep water flowing
in our blood and veins
bathing our ocean-derived cells.
Round and round, the water flows
a ubiquitous and forever fountain
in the universal water cycle.
The universe keeps swimming
in its forever spring fountain
making new lives with the same water,
rearranged through time,
recycled and reused
over and over again
in its endless becoming,
the forever fountain.
© 2010 (Jim Sularz)
A morning meadow - tall, red-yellow speckled,
now, humbled low by the wind.
Conifer sundials – mirrored shadows, slowly stretching, dancing, and then diminishing - along blurred edges of a lush, flowing sea.
Feathered, high flying eagles soar, circling small and wide, against a blue, white pillowed sky.
… a crow caws.
Nuzzled prairie dogs, with tethered tails, scamper for cover,
for danger spirals, just above.
Harvester ants marching in tiny zigzagged columns,
tunnel an ever deepened colony -
twisting around creviced rocks and roots.
Lightning fast gragonflies – thin tinsel winged airships,
darting, spinning, some kissing.
And white petite wild-flowers,
bobbing from honey bees, stand quivering.
Multi-colored butterflies flutter, undecided,
and brown-helmeted grasshoppers oddly peer -
like praying mantises, eager to leap.
Chirping sparrows, with cocked tails,
sand-bath in a warm, thirsty, summer sun.
And cat-tails, bursting, pierce through a sparsely wooded island.
A distant thunder-clap, and crawling, flat, anvil-headed clouds -
slide down majestic, snow-capped mountaintops,
marking the hour, like clockwork, this time of year.
Dusk comes, bathed in a warm, orange-amber hue,
waxing and waning with a melting sun.
A red fox stirs, finding at twilight’s gate, fresh promising scents, for her young.
And black masked raccoons steal away, through soft, cool moonlit grasses –
in a hushed, clown-like parade . . .
As I dwell in this sanctuary of place and spirit,
beneath an infinite, star-painted canopy.
I know with certainty - of mind, heart and soul,
that when God’s rainbow palette had hardened and dried -
All were - Forever One.
Two hundred forty two
(12.1 score) years ago
countless stripling soldiers
strapping farming homeboys
healthy agrarian lads
raised among generations
in summer re:
offspring original settlers heirs
family acreage encompassed
wide uninterrupted forested swaths
across sprawling vistas
sparsely populated enclaves,
now heavily industrialized
lovely bones occupying
unmarked never known graves
buried amidst avast
cleft rapacious urbanization
long forgotten innocent youths
hailing within then bucolic
Montgomery, Delaware and Chester county
forsook their young precious lives
voluntarily promising sons
risking life and limb
more often former versus latter
sacrificing stripling flesh
encompassing urbanized tracts
quite familiar to yours truly
suddenly made aware
unbeknownst till yesterday
informative literary handiwork
titled "A Glimpse of Freedom"
engagingly written by Douglas Shupinski
details innocently naive country bumpkins
sacrificing potential sweat of brow,
albeit grueling labor
fostering holistic existence
transforming boyz to men
hardened green soldiers
into battle weary fighters
regarding, kickstarting, envisioning
inchoate cause named freedom
emancipating fledgling America
against British throne
awareness percolates,
perturbs, permeates psyche
synchronizing, manifesting, galvanizing
how past historical events
within close proximity,
where I mostly resided
since birth, now experience
absorption, communion, edification...
with dead souls
nearly deathly quiet
only most perceptive can detect!
Nowadays, it seems that most dinners are served with a sprig of parsley.
Mister Cordon Bleu, I'd prefer that it be used rather sparsely!
I suppose it makes a fanciful garnish, but that is open to debate.
The stuff serves no useful purpose and just clutters up my plate!
Should I find a sprig of parsley embellishing my plate, it I will eschew,
(Tho' I reckon I could brook it for flavoring my mulligan stew!)
'Twould make a wonderful greenery for a corsage or flowery display,
But Mister Cordon Bleu, please omit it from my plate, I pray!
Should I nibble on the stuff, it wouldn't add to my nourishment.
Its only redeeming value as far as I know is use as a garnishment.
Spare me that twig of vapid parsley, if you will, Mister Cordon Bleu,
And feed it to some deserving wapiti in the local zoo!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)