Long Stop dead Poems
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Morning arrives, out of bed, coffee beckons,
Pass the hallway mirror, reflection directions.
Stop dead in tracks, return to check the vision
Looking weary despite night's invasion.
Closer inspection of my face
Hair receding but not stopped intrusion
Out of nose and ears, a forest is flourishing.
Need a shave without question,
Vision seems to say you have permission.
Now I realise there are two voices,
Mine I recognise, other not so sure.
Younger man's voice still no recognition
When you signed up for this adventure
Did you believe there would be no questions?
While I struggled for an answer,
Questions flowed from the asker.
Looked around, no one watching,
Decided to join in this session.
When I talk to myself,
Questions are usually answered
With the sense, that makes me happy
This face to face has now turned ugly
Now the vision is of a younger man,
Struggle to understand recognition
I stand in awe at the happening,
Laughter comes from the younger man
I now stand and listen
Life's lessons are being given
Mirror becomes mist covered,
I lean forward and begin to rub.
I freeze and look at two visions
Mam and Dad stand before me.
Ask the questions you did not before
Could not speak, tears flowed
Awoke in bed, it was just a nightmare.
Lay there with the scenes fresh in my head
Kitchen calls, coffee needed
Pass the hallway mirror without a glance
Return to mirror coffee in hand
No vision now seen, not even me.
Walking along from the public house late that night
My lantern giving just a little light
My thoughts as I walked, was I very late?
The time unimportant the year eighteen thirty-eight.
A scream I heard, from a far off distance.
Commotion coming my way, do I make a stance?
A lone figure running towards me, I stop dead in my tracks.
Do I move aside or run away, or even turn right back.
My lamp is only a candle; its light is very dim.
I see a tall figure with glowing red eyes; he is tall and very thin.
With a hooked nose and ears, those look as if they are pointed
He bounds past in the lamp light, with a hood and cloak appointed.
I know not what it is, but to me it looks very evil.
Wrapped in cloak with hideous looks, I am sure it is the devil.
The mob that is chasing it, finds me standing in their way
With cudgels and with pitchforks, but they let me have my say.
Satisfied it was not me, the chase begins once again.
I join the mob in the chase; my heart begins to feels the strain.
We chase the devil along a dark narrow path hoping it makes a gaff
We catch up and corner him, he gives a demonic laugh.
The devil turns to the mob; he’s trapped by a fifteen foot hedge.
His laugh rings out his claws are drawn, silver talons, light glistening on the edge.
One of the mob shoots at him, but the devil opens his mouth wide.
Blue flames and fire shoot from it, blinding the shooter, who steps aside.
The devil leaps the hedge with a great agility
I am aghast with fear and shock, a demonic laugh reaches me.
We stand not knowing what it was, will it be coming back?
A voice from the mob, whispers you know what…
That was spring heeled Jack
Spring Heeled Jack was seen during the time of Jack the Ripper in the streets of London in 1838.
The passage through life is like an unchartered river leading to the sea.
The uncertainty of the flow is always something that’s real
You may move very fast or hardly move at all.
You may traverse a wild current or get caught in its swirl
Nature plays this game when we think we can deal
Nature plays its game and doesn’t care when we reel.
Perhaps the key to happiness is found in the balance of the flow?
We are strong in the world but do we listen to the world when nature says no?
Perhaps we need to stop dead still and look at where we are?
Perhaps nature’s watching and judging our moves and thinks we’ve gone too far?
Do we realise that to the world we are just animals here in time?
A virus that mutates in the world is as natural has the Moon in the sky.
A pandemic that can stop the flow of life in the blink of an eye!
Do we realise that nature may be less forgiving next time?
It’s Maysville Kentucky’s own,
Laurie Ginn writing her poetry.
Snuggled down in the hills,
There’s no other place to be.
With an active happy life,
Her heart overflows with joy.
She loves our Heavenly Father,
And has two 6’2” teen boys.
She has a love for nature,
Being in the midst of conifers.
Hiking deep in the woods,
Is a spiritual experience to her.
Sitting outside under the stars,
Illuminated by the fire’s burning logs.
Listening to the beautiful music,
Created by the crickets and frogs.
No on can leave the campfire,
Until the fire burns out naturally.
For she can stop dead in the road,
Amazed by the beauty of a tree.
With a freedom to love and give,
She aids church and disturbed kids.
And when her music is turned up,
To turn it down she forbids.
Her words flow like the Ohio River,
Poetry Soup showcases her skills.
Her inspiration is all around her,
Nestled in the Kentucky hills.
________________________
This poem is for Laurie Ginn,
a fellow souper and friend.
For her suppotive comments...
There is a woodpile in my in-laws’ cellar, and some coal, but other rumored things also.
And it has been there a long time since anyone tripped down these broken concrete steps.
Maybe twenty or thirty years; we inherited this home a long time ago.
We have sold it four times on contract,
which has fallen through again.
My husband is not here,
He cannot take it.
But I can, so I take a couple of steps,
Until I get within a foot, when I stop dead as
I can smell the mold through the three-inch door.
The rumor is that there are treasures down there.
I do not know. We were never allowed near this cellar door.
Now I am sixty-six, so technically old enough to go down into this cobwebby den,
But I can smell the mold through the door.
So I back up and rest in an old lawn chair, left by one of the people who thought they
were buying the house before they decided to desert it.
I can still smell the mold, so I back up a bit further, the sun on my face, my feet leaning against a gentle lavender clover.
I am terrified of mold, as I am an asthmatic, and mold could trigger some awfulness in me.
So here I sit, staring as others wander in and out, poking among dusty things
That are disintegrating as they are being brought out into the sun.
Other relatives are coughing; trying to breathe as they haul green and brown stuff out,
Most indistinguishable as real things at first or second glance.
Most needing a power washing, that would completely decimate it.
Maybe she had the right idea, one says, pointing at me, as I lie here, soaking
Up the sun rays. I take off my shoes and push my toes into the clover.
Then I turn my face up, letting the sun hit my nose.
Are you kidding? A teenager yells. This treasure hunt is great!
She runs back down the steps to haul out more loot that her prissy mother
Will never let her take in the car, let alone in the house.
I know because I am prissy girl’s mother.
So here I sit, in a falling-apart green lawn chair, watching the show.
Thinking how my mother-in-law is probably up in heaven laughing, as she too
Smells the mold through that cellar door.
DEAD END STREET --WHY do dead end roads Exist
"Are you my enemy, if you’re not my friend?
Alternative exit without exit should be posted dead end
When “Google” tells you turn right at the bend
Daylight night time Run Johnny Run gets dark at ten
~
Its GPS systems “Google” shows and tells you the road there
Maybe curb site lodging house in front of thee
As connecting when they actually do not trail, where?
I fell off the rugged deep end plummeting free
~
Keeping wheels on the road round, round you go
Rounded end to facilitated to slow, flow on cul-de-sacs
I driving off the freeway, spinning my way to and fo
Up down alleys down yield, slow, stop, dead end signs surface
~
Disconnected streets filled with trash cans, homeless and police
Crimes and gangs’ darkness rends why do dead end roads exist?
Limit through-traffic in residential areas.
Conjure up visions of quiet suburban bliss,
Curb line barrier curbs sidewalks houses meet barriers
Far removed from dangers and noisy high-speed traffic
~
One with low wages and no hope of promotion
No speeders, skate boarder, permitted on the shoulders
Cul-de-sac deadlock stalemate blank wall blind alley
Catch me if you can you can’t I am running blindly
~
Short street with a bulbous end, or even to the end just a portion
Why do neighborhoods have dead ends?
A long road that is a no-through road and terminates abruptly
All those speed bumps, curbs, Cul-de-sac deadlocks not our friends
~
Dead ends are added to road layouts in urban planning
To limit through-traffic in residential areas no one carrying
Is the dead end a road or street, an alley or sidewalk meet
No through road or no exit road,
Is a street with only one inlet or outlet?
When you come upon a dead end"
11/13/23
DEAD END STREET Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: John Lawless
I met him a long, long time ago,
denim clad and dusty leather boots
sitting astride a motorcycle
He took off his helmet; I stumbled
only to stop dead on my hazed tracks
and crashed in his ocean sapphire eyes.
Scattered bouquets flowers wallpaper,
soft silky satin and remnant dreams.
Parched lilies quivers upon his grave
and falls arched over where it now laves
along with till dirt in the hot sun.
Death doesn't mourn, but devours lovely things
To savor every drop of anguish
and narrate the final threads of life
with a blithe attitude toward death.
5/17/2018
Poetry Contest: Best Free Verse Poem in May 2018'
Sponsored By: Laura Loo