Long Squeals Poems
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The raw delight and
wonder of an eager
child-poet lay scattered
across the floor.
A baby's coo squeals from
the aging pages babbling
forth childish nonsense while
tired cliches wind lazily through
trite rhymes lacking lyrical luster.
Still, each precious verse endears
me to the memory of a precocious
youth when poetry was simple
and an unspoiled world
lay bare age old secrets
calling out to be discovered.
Author's commentary:
I don't remember what inspired me to write my first poems, but there was always something about
language. Something profound, something powerful, something pure.
I had no natural talent, and thankfully I didn't know it for I might have given up.
But eventually, and by sheer accident, I pieced together something that worked proving
poetry is not reserved solely for those with the predisposition but is also born of
passion, study, and discipline.
It was 15 years of frustration and tears as poem after bad poem was ripped to shreds by
seasoned writers with invaluable, albeit sometimes harsh, advice before I created anything
worthy of being read. But I am in love with poetic art so have persevered with humility
and gratitude in the face of rejection until finding a rhythm of my own. And though a bit
of time may sometimes pass before I am moved to write again, the words eventually spill
forth, and with a bit of luck and ingenuity, I will write a profound piece of insightful
prose stirring pride in the hearts of my mentors whose opinions I hold so dear.
For me, it has never come easy but with a deep-rooted love for the art and an obsession
for one day authoring a single, perfect verse, I hope to be unified in spirit with the
ghosts of poets past inspiring and encouraging others to keep the craft alive.
Just A little pink piggy plush with squeaker inside
but for two little doggies she's quite a prize
She doesn't really squeak anymore
more like a whispering squeal the dogs adore
For when they bite down on her middle
she softly squeals like playing a fiddle
If Kublai has her in his grasp with joy
Genghis hovers over waiting to steal the toy
Dozens of dozens of little toys litter the floor
but the little pink piggy is their prize of war
They snatch her from each other all day
stealing the little pink piggy is how they play
At night if Genghis sleeps with her under his paw
in the morning Kublai has her locked in his jaw
All the other animals from elephant to mouse
sit lonely through out the house
So I bought another little plush piggy color red
the dogs both ignore him it was still pinky instead
I squeaked little red piggy he was really loud
with dogs jumping for him wanting him now
Little Pink Piggy rest from all their play
Little Red Piggy is the new toy of the day
Goth mood’s not right, not bright enough.
Fountain of sea, rapt in darkness.
Crepuscular ink blocks sunlight.
The cursive waves doth strain the wrist.
Fa-la-la rhymes, leaping and lowing.
Counting the black sheep - times not slowing.
Fountain of sea, deep in darkness.
Coarse keys, ivory black, musing.
The cursive waves doth strain the wrist.
Resist of playful sounds - thirsting.
Fa-la-la rhymes, leaping and lowing.
Counting the black sheep - times not slowing.
Coarse keys, ivory black, musing,
and refusing to budge - lines spurn.
Resist of playful sounds - thirsting.
The burn hisses and squeals; smudges.
Fa-la-la rhymes, leaping and lowing.
Counting the black sheep - times not slowing.
And refusing to budge, lines spurn.
Crepuscular ink blocks sunlight.
The burn hisses and squeals; smudges.
Goth mood’s not right, not bright enough.
With her chubby pink cheeks and azure eyes,
my baby girl drifts in and out of sleep,
feigning a quizzical look of surprise.
She can't sleep, no matter how hard he tries:
sucking her thumb, not uttering a peep,
with her chubby pink cheeks and azure eyes.
She holds my finger like a hard-won prize;
a trophy she is determined to keep,
feigning a quizzical look of surprise.
Her squeals for attention soon turn to cries:
and breaking into tears, she starts to weep,
with her chubby pink cheeks and azure eyes.
She settles down as soon as Mom arrives:
as if she just awoke from counting sheep,
feigning a quizzical look of surprise.
She's like a little Devil in disguise.
leaving her blankets in a tangled heap:
with her chubby pink cheeks and azure eyes,
feigning a quizzical look of surprise.
Visited the Whitney*
For the Hoppers – what a treat!
A gathering of works with which
Few artists can compete.
Yet in a separate little room
A different treasure lay –
A film of “Calder’s Circus”
With its figures on display.
For Alexander Calder,
He of mostly-mobiles fame,
Put together, out of wire,
And deserving of acclaim
Every animal and acrobat
That we’d expect to see
At a circus, bringing them to life.
(At least, he did for me.)
With a twinkle in his eye,
He made the dogs and horses prance,
While the trapeze artists flew
And Fanni did her sexy dance.
There’s an elephant and lion
And a strong man and some seals,
Every figure bringing laughter
And how-did-he-do-that squeals.
Though I went to see the Hoppers,
I was thrilled with them, despite
Thinking Calder’s wire circus
Brought to me the most delight.
*The Whitney Museum of Art, Manhattan,
which currently has an Edward Hopper exhibit.
She smiles like a mission statement—
all vision boards and decaf compassion.
Says she’s rooting for you,
then plants rumors like heirloom tomatoes:
carefully spaced, watered just enough
to grow wild in someone else’s yard.
You know the type.
Squeals I'd never
right before she does—
but soft, with mittens on.
The kind of sabotage that
leaves no fingerprints,
just your name
smudged under a headline
she pretends not to read.
It's embarrassing.
She curates concern like a lifestyle blog.
Screenshots your grief as hers
for group chat empathy drills.
Leaves the door open on purpose,
then texts you
how sorry she is
that someone let the cold in.
You never asked her to stay.
But you notice—
she always stands in the same frame,
just close enough
to gobble up the good lighting,
to crop you out.
I write because...because...I write:
It is what I do, what I am;
at the heart, an ancient quill beside a
primitive pump (in and out as basic
as time) – a vein feeding, exiting and
entering, my spirit nourished within the flow,
my being propelled with each forward
thrust and breath-full recession -- all souls
count their journeys, recording the letters
and themes of each passing. I fly over
neighborhoods, those known and
foreign – intuitively taking note of signs
and lamps – we are as much light as
the dark of alleys, squeals of
forbidden voices. There is never a shortage
of inspiration.
,
A black cloud descends…. , , ,
Each flower grows hopeful! ,,
In jubilation, katydids, laughingly, make noisy ovations! , , ,
Party-planner, Queen Rosie, STOPS to
unleash verses,with ’xcited Yiddish zeal !
……………………………………………………………. , ,
D Daisy Mae, and Lily Gay, bathe in refreshing rains ,,
A Anointed too, are tiny baby buds, with every little drop ,, ,,,
N Narcissus squeals with laughter, and sings a sweet refrain
C Crickets dance with plaid berets, and do a Celtic hop!
I In the mud we’ll find two pigs, they splash, but then rain STOPS!
N Nanny Goose, and Granny Goat, play banjos in the band
G Gardenias, stash away umbrellas, they scrub from end to end
R Rabbits hear the jubilee, and from a hole they pop
A A squirrel or two, comes down the tree, where all the fuss began
I In spite of fear, the little mouse, looks out to see what’s up
N Nearby, the cat, just waves his hat, allows the mice some fun!
N Dogs join in, STOP chasing cats, they splash, and play like kids
R Rainbows fill the evening sky, where now the sun peeks in
O Overhead, the colors smile, in greens, and blues and reds
P Pretty is the world tonight, refreshed, and clean, and good
S Softly STOPS the pitter-pat upon on the evening’s hood
…………………………………………………………………………
Thirsty trees, and tender tulip tongues, tasted today’s tantalizing tonic
Rain STOPS to retreat, to replenish, refresh, repair, and rest
Delighted dancers STOP, to discuss day’s divine delivery duties
Rainbows remind recovering revelers reasons to STOP and reflect, rejoice, recent rainy rewards
Slowly, in soft slippers, STOPping to shine, sun sets silently.
Satisfactorily satiated, the scenery seems serene, sparkling and sleepy…..
..............................................................................................................................
Inspired by Debbie's Contest "Aye, Aye, and a Mistress"
The waves of death...
"What a wonderful world we live in",
Are the words that are frequently said.
But an earthquake in Asia some years ago,
Left thousands of people dead.
An earthquake borne from far within,
This planets deep blue sea.
Islands and countries forever scarred,
By a raging tsunami.
To witness such acts of nature,
Hearing screams and deathly squeals.
The waters relentless advancing force,
Gripping at peoples heels.
Trains tossed aside like childrens toys,
While bodies flow on by.
Thousands trapped beneath the waves,
How could so many die?
As waters receded, only then did we see,
What destruction was lain in our path.
Bodies and buildings entombed in mud,
A product of natures wrath.
Bodies strewn across the plains,
Once blessed by Gods' own hand.
Orphans and widows left in its wake,
Will we ever understand?
Such a disaster never seen before,
Brought on by a killer tide.
May we never see its like again,
And may God always be at your side...
John
Is 65 and a tall man
Dressed in a white suit and tie
With nice tennis shoes fuzzy socks
And some hair plopped on top.
Mary is 24 with blond hair and a smile so fun
Her sweetness tosses like sugar
Across the party of every room
She enters.
Her contagious smile has been erased
Behind her virus mask
Yet still gloriously escapes
Through her crinkled blue eyes
Her heaving cheek bones and that guttural ha! laugh.
Down the aisle they walk together
Between all the seated people
Mary steadying John by the arm
Whispering to his agitated face
With the palm of her hand and several Kleenexes
His heavy weight leaning
Into her strength and beauty.
John
Lives comfortably in a nice house
Enjoys retiree health care and a full pension
For his immediate family
Until he dies.
Mary
Has no health care
No 401(k) vacation or sick time
Makes $12.50/hour
And lives in a little ground floor apartment
In the middle of the city with a cat.
She can’t help herself
Happy anyway.
He staggers
She swaggers.
The two reach John’s mother
Up front
Cloaked in a beautiful blue dress
Surrounded by candles and photographs
Her hands clenched around a bouquet of flowers
A half smile
No longer blocked by a mask
As she lies asleep in her coffin.
Mary holds John up by the waist
His mask hinged to his jaw and ears
While he makes muffled squeals
And pokes his mother’s body.
Mary turns him around
Draws him back to his pew
Everyone sitting six feet apart
Crying
More for John than his mother.
Mary takes it in stride
For she cleans his behind after accidents
Lifts him up from sidewalks after he’s fallen
Feeds him food from a spoon
Wipes his chin
And when he screams at the top of his lungs
She tries to remind him
The old comfort of his forgotten name
John John
But that never works
Yet when she says it’s Mary Mary
He sometimes recognizes something
Far away
And can quiet for her
There is no Medicare reimbursement for this
She
Alone as an angel
Drives home for the night
In a beat up car
Her magic performed
Poorer
But richer
Than what any CEO could ever imagine in space.