Long Straggler Poems
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A Dead Knight’s Tale
I took a knee—this was my hope,
the honour long desired.
I stood a knight, went up the slope,
burning with zeal and fire.
I was no longer untitled
and quickly I grew proud.
I was arrogant and entitled—
Bent on pleasing the crowd.
Then followed the battles I had lost.
“Straggler” was my new name—
much wounded and covered with blood,
staggering with much to blame.
I was embracing my defeat.
Then, all of a sudden,
I was invited to a feast—
Feast! What's the occasion?
What for? I could not but wonder.
They cried, “We won! We won!”
How, though? I could not understand.
I knew not what to do.
Then he came running—with open arms,
hugged me, kissed me, robed me.
“Today I found that which was lost!”
He said, "Do you love me?"
So I tell him, “I think I do.”
And he asks me again,
I say, “I think I’d like to love you.”
And he asks me again.
“You know, my Lord—I do love you.”
Then he says, “Feed my sheep.”
Yesterday a knight, now a shepherd.
“I will,” and then I weep.
With newfound purpose, I breathed again.
I resolved to respond.
My brothers, take a stand with me!
Sing! Sing! From morn ’til dawn!
Lift up your voices and sing His praise!
Rise! Arise, in His name!
To live is Christ—to die is gain.
Boldly, with me, proclaim!
I was lost, and now I am found.
No more shall I wander.
He is my shepherd; I shall not want,
And I am His forevermore!
They march together down the road,
one straggler at the back.
It seems to me her pace has slowed;
at least she has her pack.
The others walk around the mud;
she goes through each pot hole.
She’s down on all fours with a thud,
and now she’s on patrol.
There’s always adventure, to be sure,
on Huskey Mountain Road.
Whatever may ail, this is the cure;
just breathe, exhale, unload.
They tiptoe 'round the puddles there;
she jumps in with both feet.
They are all reasonably dry;
her soaking is complete.
They’re on the gravel, right on top;
she’s walking in the ditch.
They make good time; they rarely stop.
Her progress is a stitch.
There’s always adventure, to be sure,
on Huskey Mountain Road.
Whatever may ail, this is the cure;
just breathe, exhale, unload.
Without a care, my precious girl
embraces dirt and grime.
Oblivious, in her own world,
she’s having a great time.
We’ve simply learned to shrug and grin,
to bring a change of clothes,
and when she gets back home again,
she’ll likely need the hose.
There’s always adventure, to be sure,
on Huskey Mountain Road.
Whatever may ail, this is the cure;
just breathe, exhale, unload.
The Gargoyle Yawns
The Fogwalker searches for clues in the moist darkness of early morning. The mist feels it's way through empty alleys and vacant lots.
Cautious footsteps crackle from the gravel pathway lined with broken glass and dry leaves, evidence the Autumn Equinox has smothered the last breath of summer.
Gangways between decaying brick buildings echo from dogs sounding an alarm with menacing Baskerville howls and barks.
A garden of flickering street lights blossom under the black canopy of darkness. These twilight flowers reach for a lazy moon with the dim enthusiasm of jaundice fluorescence.
The Diogenestic odyssey by the nocturnal straggler is an exercise clothed in failure. Honesty dressed in shabby clothes is disguised as a fictitious conviction. This quality that measures the value of character is a virtue that few possess and is rarely practiced.
Who does this best policy of honesty benefit? Is it the one divulging the truth or the recipient of honesty? The best part of this said truth are the lies.
Standing at the edge of night peering over the ledge into dawn the Gargoyle yawns.
O' Lord, leave us not alone,
For if thou leave us on our own
We shall wander like a cow in the green field
This world is a labyrinth and a maze
And without Your guidance we may drift away
From the right and chosen path for success
You hold the keys while we search for the doors
You are Merciful, We are subservient
You are our Master and we are your servants
You know what and how to give
We don't know what and how to ask
You are bountiful and we remain tightfisted
You invite us for success and rewards
We look for material gains and hoardings
You are the conqueror
We are the straggler
Leave us not for this hard test
Help us to obey, follow and succeed….
In this life and hereafter..Aameen.
Like a pack of howling wolves in need of prey,
A wounded urban psyche strains its gnarled voice,
Motherless, fatherless, ice cold pavement waif,
Wee small hours plight
The rocks of his facade dispatched in ghost trains
for those ghoulish oil float gutters to imbibe,
Back street burden stray, schooled in fringe art fables,
Phantom kite chaser
Eerie street lights peer into an aimless soul,
Clouds of pea soup fog engulf his raw foot slink,
Firefly knotted angst or bilious grumble,
Trash can tummy fare
But still he ambles on, inner plagues in charge
as loafers from the underworld gawk and gape,
Pithy, a phased out coin for snow cap straggler,
dead of night orphan.
Date Poem Submitted : 19 th Of July 2020
Title : A Dark Underbelly
Sponsor : Edward Ibeh
It was close to Christmas time and late afternoon when our plane arrived in Nashville. My father-in-law, who had been waiting, greeted us with hugs, then shepherded us all out to his van. Usually we’d make it to their place in Cadiz within 2 hours. But on our way there, we noticed cars had slowed.
Little did we know, ahead of us the weather had grown quite foul. Coming up on Clarksville, Dad turned on the wipers, for flecks of falling snow had turned to sleet.
Brooding now, we focused nervously on each detail of the trip; on every sliding motion that was made, on every bump and every straggler we saw that had slid off the road. Meanwhile, ever conscious of the time, I was calculating how much longer it would take to reach our destination as we crawled along at 25 mph!
We made a restroom stop at a McDonald’s. It happened to be closing quite early at that exact moment we pulled in (violent snow storms were rare in Kentucky, and only fools would venture out this night to get a burger!) Against raw wind, eager to escape its nip, we carefully but quickly trod on ice after our stop, returning to the comfort of the van.
Finally we approached our final turnoff, and I noted how those last few miles still would take a half hour more to drive. Late that night, we pulled into the drive-way of my in-laws’ welcoming house lit brightly for Christmas. Feeling the biting cold as we piled out of the van and seeing nothing but the stark white of snow against the dark, I breathed a sigh of relief to have safely arrived!
morning’s light. . . .
the dazzle of trees’ branches
encased in ice
For Debbie Guzzi's Mix It Up Poetry Contest
Tongue twister line:
From the rustic rover to Samuel Sanders, they try to tickle the tongue with tricky tongue twisters.
1. A rustic rover round the ricks ran restlessly, and restive, he rushed to the nearby rural rill to reinvigorate himself. Then whoever he met, he ranted and raved with him or her with reckless arrogance. Revivified and rejuvenated, the vagrant straggler across the riverbank rumbled and rumbled , and trounced a regal recluse that triggered a fiery ruction. Then another rowdy ragamuffin slapped him hard and a furious rabble raised an unprecedented rumpus.
2. Samuel Sanders, a saucy salesman with sable brow, had an ancestral house in Sussex, but since he was a man of gypsy psyche, of late he strayed into Surrey and settled there for squarely six months, and then set out to straggle across the Sicilian seashore seeking psychological solace in the serene and suave sound of the seawaves.
3. You can't put a better bit of butter on your platter because a martyr did shatter the packet of your butter as it did welter in the gutter, but that waiter did cater you this later, muttering about an utter butter-hater from Gloucester with bitter hauteur.
19th November, 2016
Nestled deep in the tawny, drab woodland
Sedate cottage neither haughty nor grand
Sparse hovel of unassuming, itinerant brigand
Martial decor of detached highwayman starkly bland
The etched path sculpted by intemperate hand
No manicured garden on the scrubby strand
Briers and brambles errant straggler must withstand
Thatched clapboards stable his stallion firebrand
Unruly swine garnish acorns from scraggly wasteland
Buried deep in his cellar pilfered contraband
Per chance drifter did the terrain assay
And chose that toilsome, forsaken way
A spartan welcome hauteur did convey
No lodgings, accoutrements could sway
If for grace, mercy they did pray
Only a cold shoulder he did relay
If they tested his temperance and sued for trite parley
He reconnoitered their belongings through wordplay
If no net value they were beguiled to betray
Their worthless lives he did indignantly slay
She said some words and blackbirds cawed
As she stirred her cauldron to a goblin's applaud
Her nose was crooked, her skin was green
As her cackles echoed on Halloween
The Halloween night was filled with gloom
As she patrolled the skies on her trusty broom
She was looking for stragglers, those who lagged behind
Then she'd swoop down and catch them, their fate unkind
The first one she brought back began to scream
But this only made the old hag's eyes gleam
She waved her hand to and fro
And turned him into a crow!
Then off again on her broom she flew
As her cauldron bubbled with a fearsome brew
She saw another straggler dawdling by a gate
She swooped down swiftly to seal his fate
All her victims would scream and scream
Wishing and hoping they were in a dream
10-11-2024
I stand and watch the exodus of ants
Through sig sag tracks, they wind their way
They march like disciplined soldiers
Never deterred by hurdles on their way
Are they fleeing from an imminent danger?
Or are they on their way to forage their daily bread
They move on urgency, no straggler on the way
Oh! With what collective energy they tread
It seems, these tiny insects lead an active communal life
Sometimes thousands of them scuttle on the ground
We wonder who summons them to gather as a group
Usually they keep in line with the ones going in front
White ants build underground condominiums
As from castles, their spires tower above the ground
They are thus comfortably settled beneath
In air conditioned compartments within the mound
Black ants occupy every creek and cranny
And live in unified colonies without strife
They are not fussy about where they stay
Any humble shelter is enough for their simple life
If by chance one gets hurt or wounded
The others generously carry it on their back
It is fun to watch them scurry on their tiny legs
And observe them move along, forming a neat track
Red ants are the miscreants of the whole lot
With mandibles like pliers, they pinch n pierce the skin
They might even crawl unseen to our beds
Leaving us itchy and scratchy making our heads spin
If the carcass of a rat or roach is found
In no time it is stripped down to the bone
If some grain is strewn on their way
In seconds each one carries and it is done
Unity is their strength, through precept they prove
They work together and live in harmony
They never rob another of his property
Nor like man covet his neighbor’s money!
15. Jan. 2022
Insect’s Poetry Contest
Sponsor- Angela Tune