Long Stretched out Poems
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The ranks of a Greyhound Bus Driver
Destination career
Open highway of preserver
Log book Journal in hand
Stretched out dog behind the trademark making the operations happen
Greyhound being the name and the eyes being the Driver in continuous
Extending hours and miles in distances
Passenger’s choice
Weather that can sometimes be uncertain
Courage throughout at the steering wheel
Big difference from the stagecoach days
Greyhound Bus Drivers in their flash of lights here and there in hello
Greyhound Bus Motor coach Engineers who make the Greyhound name from the beginnings to present
The unform being the show in the status of excellence
Anderson and Wickman being the founders who created Greyhound
They had no idea of the impact Greyhound had then, but still maneuvering from its start and high marks of success
Long history of progress
Highway of assurance
Hound dog of influence
Friendly hand at the boarding bus door
The first Welcome Aboard
Announcement of various stops and final destination
Reclining back and feeling safe
At the end of the journey, “Thanks for going Greyhound”
The Go in maneuver and arriving in commitment
That is what you call Greyhound Bus Driver know how
Standard in expelling
Assuring in appealing
The open road has observed
The friendly wave from the Drivers to all who watch as the bus passes by
Upward approach
Dependable and reliable
GO GREYHOUND…….LEAVE THE DRIVING TO THEM
Destination complete and punctual
Greyhound Bus Driver salute
Standing in the frigid wind outside the bus stop doors
She seemed lost and lonely as the cars past with a roar.
Waiting for my only child the son whom I adore
I couldn’t help but wonder where was she headed for?
The prodigal returned through those same two frosty doors
But though the night was getting dark no one came for her.
Stopping right beside her, the radio blaring a Christmas score
We asked her if she needed help could we do any more?
Her wind burnt cheeks rose with the smile she wore
“Thank you, no.” She said. Her eyes they did explore
the warm interior and the street stretched out before
My folks are late but coming soon at least I’m pretty sure…
We left her there before the door yet still my heart implores
How many lost and lonely waifs are left standing by the door?
*Monorhyme is Sonnet form using slip or half rhyme.
Some good deeds go unaccepted.
The hopes that she stood on were taller than reality,
But from such heights she could see very far,
On the bounds of what she dreamt of she thought
there must surely be,
her love, her life, her anchor, guiding star.
To any passing paramour she stretched out willing hands
and for brief moments desperately clung
but trying to pluck roses from where stalks of nettles stand
eventually leads to getting stung.
He hove to view like sunrise, warmed her face and lit her eyes
a chiselled jaw and eyes of polished steel
an easy charm that could disarm completed the disguise
all boxes ticked, he answered her appeal.
But like the locusts in their swarms that seek to overpower
his time with her was brief then he was gone
he stripped her harvest, plucked her heart, and then her soul devoured
and left a hollow shell, her dreams all gone.
She tightly gripped the bannister and gazed three floors below
this staircase she chose for her last device
swung over both her legs and without pausing she let go
and thus in just one day she'd fallen twice.
Today she welcomes visitors with arms out to embrace
though no-one takes her offer, just like then
for the beyond has stretched a silken veil across her sallow face
protecting from more sorrows, that are men.
Why The Willow Weeps
Once upon a time, a long time ago, there was a beautiful park in a sunny valley.
In this park there were three Willow Trees. In those days the Willow was a proud tall tree,
Its strong limbs outspread. It stood with its branches happily swaying in the breeze,
Two taller Willows grew either side of the smaller tree where they had grown happily for Many years.
The land owner had looked after the sunny valley for a long time but as he became older He had to sell the park and a new owner came along who decided he needed a river Where boaters could glide in slow, tranquil waters.
Then woodsmen came and cut down one of the two taller Willow trees.
The younger tree looked on, helpless. Workmen diverted the river
So that it bent around the younger Tree's feet. The young Willow Tree,
Its branches once stretched out now, saddened, Hung its fronds down into the water.
Then a carpenter came along and built a bridge over the river. Now the park owner Wanted a path over the bridge so the woodsman cut down the remaining tall Willow to Make way for the path where the tall tree had once stood.
Now the young Willow tree wept as its branches dipped into the dappled shade of the Slow moving waters. The boaters on the river admired the beauty of the young Willow, its Soft fronds hanging into the dappled shade around its feet and, just occasionally, the Wind sighed in its branches.
Now all Willows grow with their soft fronds hanging down and weep into the water in Memory of the Willow that wept.
12/07/2016
A stretched out string of human rights espoused
By the nations league some eight decades back,
A wide river of censure has aroused
From rational minds, who brains do not lack.
The words “all men are born free” across lands
And are “equal in dignity and rights”,
Inscribed in shining scripts in books so grand,
Have across time suffered a frightful plight.
Diverse flags flutter at shrines of men’s rights
But more to please and to wheedle the eyes:
Freedoms won long ago through sweat and fight
Seem to have shrivelled in the silent sky.
When wardens of peace are fenced in a ring,
When deprived children with hollow eyes cry,
When pangs of hunger sting and sirens sing,
Pursuit of peace turns to hard whispered lies.
The media recounts diurnal bleeds,
Cruel bombs that wreck and victims that fall,
Borders that are crossed and desperate needs
That on households in sheltered tents befall.
In forums peace is preached with perfumed plea,
Treaties signed amidst blare and blooming grace,
Then weapons of death are traded with spree
As seeds of hatred sprout in time and space.
Perhaps goals of peace and rights were too high,
Perhaps human heart is not ever pure,
As a crystal clear lake eyeing the sky,
To conquer hate, affection to ensure.
Loads of failures that loom, shadows that creep,
Sow the seeds for sane, sensible worry,
Yet despite stark setbacks, time isn`t to sleep,
But pursue peace and build a world that`s free.
Time is to speak the truth, to lend a hand,
To see the worth shining in every soul,
To build a benign bridge across the land
And strive to pursue peace to make us whole.
aung san suu kyi MYANMAR Rohingya
Sad when human life become intolerable,
inhumane,
nauseating,
heartbreaking,
kids deliberately taken from their parents,
left to fend for their sustenance,
begging and pleading,
countless in numbers to be individualized.
A boy's little fingers stretched out for compassion,
but find none.
Never in a million years would his mother let this be,
but she was executed for her beliefs.
A little girl in a pretty frock
tells of her once fairly privileged life.
Her mother wrenched from her in the same way.
Another,
and another,
white cracked lips,
bare footed,
tearless sobs,
all jammed behind muddy barricades,
bowls outstretched,
waiting impatiently for sustenance,
still hoping the parents in their eyes will save them.
aung san suu kyi when will our parents come for us?
For you I am here
being cooled by this breeze
coming in off the water, soul deep
in an evening breaking out in stars,
being soothed by the soft sound
of lapping waves filtering through
the muted air.
And for you I take in the sky strung
with the filaments of creation,
the moon veiled by a thin gauze
of glowing cloud and see
in a long, faintly brushed ribbon
of light, the edge of our galaxy
stretched out above.
And so,
I have become the means
for you to feel this evening,
its unfolding in time and space,
whilst you remain hidden
from me, unreachable
behind the impenetrable silence
of eternity.
Neither is there any daysman betwixt us, that might lay his hand upon us both.
Job 9:33 King James Version Bible
JOB
I stink of death and boils.
My wife is left to stir my trouble.
Friends, of late, do suffocate.
Oh Lord, I give you my complaint.
JESUS
Clouds of darkness covet the sky.
Thunderbolts scream from on high.
A perfect man offered up to die.
For now, friends question why.
GOD
Sees that a man is righteous
When a man is covered with his son’s blood
Jesus, divine and man at the same time
Our daysman, stretched out his arms
One hand on God, One on man
10/22/2017
The best dog we ever had arrived at our house when he was only two…we named him Whitman (after a bakery)…turns out…he liked donuts too.
Whitman died a long time ago…from a cancer he couldn’t survive…but an old movie I saw yesterday brought his memory alive.
Reminding me of all he taught us…all the blessings he endowed…I’m not sure I ever thanked him when he was alive…so Whitman I‘d like to thank you now.
Thank you for teaching me how to be gentle…you certainly had the knack…all those time you stretched out on the floor and let the grandkids climb upon your back.
Thank you for teaching me about patience and loyalty…like I’d never been taught before…for all those times I’d return home and you’d be waiting by the door.
Thank you for teaching me about friendship…how friends don’t always need to talk…thanks for showing me how to listen on our early morning walks.
Thanks for teaching me about giving…for all those times you found your way to me…when you sensed I was sad or upset and you put your head upon my knee.
As we both grew a little older…thanks for teaching me it’s okay…
to find a warm spot in the sun…and take a nap in the middle of the day
And as the cancer overtook you…and your body couldn’t keep pace…you taught me how to deal with pain…with dignity and grace.
The final thing you taught me…as it came your time to die
was that the deeper you love someone in life…the harder it is to say goodbye.
An even when your journey together is short…once you form that partnership
no matter how hard it is to say goodbye…it is totally worth the trip
So let me take a moment Whitman…as I feel your spirit hovering above…
To thank you for helping educate me about life…
and teaching me about love…
It does not matter today
what I had thought of doing on an earlier day
such as blowing my brains out.
On yet another day
I was stretched out under the corn,
a flaxen-haired lady-love beside me.
Both recollections merge now
as the flowing wind-music
of high green stalks.
The sun may be beating down
but it’s not beating me down today,
the corn is ten thousand dances
of tall shade.
Under a swaying sky.
such a thing, not knowing exactly
how deep into the corn you are,
nor knowing exactly the direction out;
that kind of moment you might never know
if you lived far from the corn.
If, on a certain day, I had blown my brains out
it would also have been
a fine place to have done that,
but of course I did not,
there are always more cornfields.