Long Stealers Poems
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I had once gone to a place in Ghana.
In that distant land of beautiful dreams
I stood on the banks of the River Ankobra.
Watch rapids navigate the upper streams.
I followed the rush and roar as they switch.
With grandeur bliss and scary grave mists
I sought in mine and found another twist.
Threatening surprise, in trips, and slips.
A dream unseen, trapped inside the night.
With relentless demon doze trying to hide
outside there, to seek the love of my life.
With anxious eyes of the tears, she cried.
The unseen weight in fate began lifting.
Paralyzed parenthesis whose grip is weak,
Disturbing symptoms, fearfully impacting.
Serenity trying to avoid the chiding defeat.
Waking from sleep that was pure and sweet,
Peace had cheered me with a lovely dream.
But stealers of dreams leave scars of defeat.
For hope, to fill the visions we have seen.
As a weary bird seeking a place to rest
To cool her warmth adventurous breath.
She lent her eager head upon my sore chest.
And share the cold night breeze with death.
April Love
April comes rushing to the shore,
bringing her joys in by the score
It's looking grand down in the woods
and the adjoining neighbourhoods.
Coming alive now are the trees,
filled with blossom and budding leaves
Scattered showers helping to grow
fledgling flowers for summers show.
Longer days to one’s sheer delight
and the coming of shorter nights
Soft and dulcet mild spring breezes
wave goodbye to winter freezes.
April blows magic in the air,
her gift to lovers everywhere
The beginning of things anew,
life, hope, wishes, dreams coming true.
Hark the buzzing of busy bees,
seeking nectar from blossom trees
Birds busily building their nests,
hideaways from unwelcome guests.
Young lambs prancing in a spring dance,
watched over by mother’s proud glance
Look at lovely eyes of a calf,
glorious heart stealers they are.
April invites one to explore,
scenery outside the front door
So many wonders to be seen,
where the April fairies have been.
17th April 2021
Summer nights in Centerville, sleeping on the top bunk bed;
A transistor radio playing low, lying right there near my head.
The Big Red Machine was in their prime; those boys could sure play ball;
I fell asleep every night listening to the play-by-play of Joe Nuxhall.
I entered my life of puberty with Charlie Hustle running to first;
Davey Concepcion turning two and Joe Morgan with a speedy burst.
Johnny Bench throwing out would be stealers, Pedro Borbon with a bending curve;
All happening on the summer of my first kiss – once I finally worked up the nerve.
With Tommy sleeping in the bed below – nary a care in the world,
George Foster launched an enormous shot while I tried to figure out the girls.
Jack Billingham was striking them out – an apt metaphor for my chances,
As I fantasized about dating girls while two bases Ken Griffey advances.
Tony Perez was still strapping them on; Don Gullet piled up some wins;
Cesar Geronimo owned center field while my hormones multiplied within.
Coming of age in Centerville, back in nineteen seventy-four,
Meant listening to the Cincinnati Reds while thinking about the girl next door.
alone inside with me, less than inspirational
so look out for the more interesting folk
momentary excitement, the fiery motivational
beyond the familiar, to stoke and provoke
daydream departure from mundane conversational
adventures cocooned in my warm cosy cloak
cool charismatic characters, charming skills to admire
the wily wheelers, the dubious dealers
the mighty movers, the shuffling shakers, to these I aspire
delvers of science, the body-mind healers
frisky purveyors of seduction spray fuel to the fire
risky game chancers, the common sense stealers
suspenders of disbelief, poetic weavers of word
jovial jugglers of juxtaposition
addicted acquisitors, spinners shifting the absurd
fabulous fakers, deceptive magician
image presenters, dark or backlit, focused or blurred
sculptors of form, instrumental musician
composers of melody, glorious singers of song
whatever the stage, great performers of art
athletic achievers stretching stubbornly strong
rhythmic dynamo dancers moving close or apart
food-feeding salivators, their tasty pleasures prolong
delightful set dishes or delicious a la carte
whether imbibed on its own or in good company enjoyed
the brewer, the vintner, the masters of malt
innovative designers, architects of structure and void
the philosopher's stone, comfort-zone assault
insightful free thinkers, long-held paradigms destroyed
tall storytelling teachers without fear of fault
mathematical manipulators of numbers and code
quantum diving or high-flying to the stars
engineering fabricators, tunnel, bridge, rail and road
crazy drivers and loop-turning avatars
tinkering technicians, ecologists with wisdom bestowed
planners of protest, the remover of scars
inspirational givers, those with just the skill of their bent
empathy crossing over to be by your side
the meek, the afflicted, those who can ill-afford the rent
the refugee fleer from our wars worldwide
safety seekers, brave rational people with lives to augment
as we build indifferent walls... hope denied!
Heard in stories of ancient times,
a ship at sea of the privateer line.
A rat infested rigger with a creaking deck,
sailed into Point Berry as a seafaring wreck.
A crew of sailors, dastardly and mean,
shift of the eye for a chicken to pluck clean.
A flock of buzzards turned loose on a town,
drinkers of ail, stealers of pound.
windows closed, shutters pulled tight,
doors shackled and bared, locked for the night.
Laughter and curses mingled with a shout,
“Keep your hands off me.” a wench cries out.
“Come now, lass give ole Plke a kiss,
six months at sea, vinegar and piss.
Pistols charged, powder and ball,
blood on a blade, slice of a jaw.
Loose of tongue, drunk with wine,
Pillager and cutthroat of every kind.
a scene right out of a whiskey jug,
played on the stage of a waterfront pub.
Just or unjust, they do as they must
The secretive sect of ANON
They live in a world, where truths are unfurled
Where justice is served, not undone
Just kids on a quest, to make their world the best
A time for renewal has come
Born out of sedition, in an act of contrition
In a world living under the gun
Trust no one no lover, no sister nor brother
To the whim of their will never bend
The youth lie beguiled, innocence defiled
The rules of play changed to their end
A PLANDEMIC cull, our lives they annul
As part of an old prophecy
The past Resident or the next P.R.esident
Are nothing but puppets you see
The proper recourse, stop plastics at source
Corporate heads know not shame
Sustainable growth has mankind by the throat
Corporations are never to blame
Quick for to revel, in a dance with the devil
C.E.O.’s climb on the rung
When those left to pay, will drown in dismay
In a world living under the gun
Profiteers will amass, mankind lashed to the mast
Stripped of their will and their verve
The luck of the dealers, unjust freedom stealers
Put themselves before those whom they serve
As illustrious leaders, peddlers and dealers
Repeating the sins of the past
The lay of their game, as always the same
Since the first day the die has been cast
The Bible of old, as Genesis told
Of hearts that are harder than stone
The Babylon Whore, and the wolves at your door
Will render your flesh from the bone
The time it has come, Armageddon unsung
The milk has been soured and curled
A New World in the making, the old one forsaken
Their Masonic flag lies unfurled
Revival* drives spiritual quickening
Against apathy magnified by doubt
Amidst distressful skepticism-bout…
God --- I thank for timely awakening.
Propelling toward faithful stewardship
Revival fires up yielded commitment
Once promised with gracious empowerment
Christ --- I praise for His gearing leadership.
Challenging quack healers’ deceitful stand
As well as calamity-stoppers’ show
Along arrogant scene-stealers’ vain glow…
The Lord --- I worship for revival demand.
Unbroken revival covenant reigns
Ceaseless midst earnest reaching-out fervor
Possible as urged by loving favor…
The Holy Spirit --- I esteem for faith-gains.
*Isaiah 57:15 For thus saith the high and lofty One that inhabiteth eternity, whose name is Holy; I dwell in the high and holy place, with him also that is of a contrite and humble spirit, to revive the spirit of the humble, and to revive the heart of the contrite ones.
November 15, 2021
5th place, " 'U' Contest, New Poems Only"
Sponsored by Constance La France; judged on 11/15/2021.
Fall,
Fall
And keep on falling until
You splatter and drip
On the head of a man in a chequered shirt.
He's bin scraping,
picking
and trying to get in.
Sweat runs down it's black exterior.
Gum is chewed again,
as it feels sweet, sweet moisture once more.
Him and a friend find a crack
And go at like gold miners.
Sharp pangs cut through erogenous graffiti...
...then the bin asks what is it all for?
Suffocated by cigarette ends,
enough to make a pack of Marlboro's,
Albeit a wet one.
I don't question the scrapers and stealers, I question the onlookers.
There contents not much better than mines.
I think I'm just bitter.
It's clear what I'm supposed to do:
Fill up with rain water and let the litter float down the streets.
We want to heal-
scab stealers wont allows us too
sneaking up on us-
giving us new busy work
side trackers –
killing us
the only hope we had left
invested in our progeny.
progenitors
Our children become our ancestors
Arrested -
Denied freedom.
assaulted,
Degrading us our offspring.
They make examples out of noble men.
Leaders not knowing what day will
be their personal doomsday while
They recite a healing prayer on balconies
Thinking “is this my end”.
"As they risk healing folks in large crowds with
un-trusted friends watching their backs
Let me get these words in As
We begin to heal from
the power of love.
These "scab thieves’ who snatch
scabs off the old wounds.
Create and open new wounds,
As they dare us to heal.
We fall to the ground.
as the targets keep
Dropping they
Kill the mighty to
Control the weak.
We are angry -No time to heal -
Angry People
Bopping ignorant
Pop ups- Bobble heads, popping up
like bobble heads at a carnival.
We needed the big black men-
who soon after that
Perplexed us
Who were they that stood
on Hunter street?
In front of Paschal Brothers
Over near "Don Clendenin’s"
surrendering
Waving White hankies
at tricks and enemies
We are bleeding now...
The scab makers are winning
where and from wince –
Do they come from?
or go to?
Wall Street or colleges-
White collar preppies-
promoting separate causes.
We still chant
Free Mandela
“we loved him too
They all were gone
to the grave or to prison.
Many wounds open
blood everywhere.
Perplexed.
Things fall apart again in...2013
2013 is here.
We are still with open wounds
Remember now wonder
can we heal if they?
keep re-opening our wounds.
My tolerance is no more for
nincompoops and
Poot—butts, chastising
Empresses and Kings.
Knowing nothing....
While pulling off scabs
Who am I, if I lose focus?
There will be no us-
So, I relent,
Leaving them where
they are - or at least
where I found them!
I really feel that until I die
I have a connection to someone’s
future I have wounds to heal.
I must remember-
“I cannot get angry for you”,
Lest I get stuck fighting your battle.
“I will get angry with you”
I will fight aside of you.
Above the clouds, seagulls enjoyed the sky
Today you disappeared, the sad space cries
You flee the Rocky Mountains domain
Left the empty sky, won’t I see you again
You fly away from the gloomy weather
Beneath clouds, I search for you, the heart stealers
No more your white wings, nor your voice
The cold sky is missing your gentle noise
Where are you heading?
Where is your new housing?
My spirit is low as you fly away
Rocky Mountains' sky feels like a sad day
The sky mistakes my vision of your presence
The lovely shadows retain their accents
Even for a short time, a farewell is like dying
Winter sky makes my heart swinging