Long Studying Poems
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I've almost forgotten it.
It got too big -
holes appeared,
entire towns fell through them.
The Forbidden City
is a convoluted red and gold ribbon
my mind cannot now untangle.
Images float off the ink
of curling maps.
Snapshots flutter
like flags in a desert sky.
I recall in parts and pieces:
middle-aged couple’s street dancing,
no revolutionary strutting,
just Quickstep, Foxtrot,
and Bossa Nova.
The young watching,
taking notes, as if
studying for an exam.
A small one-armed boy,
riding a peddle bike
weaving through traffic,
four black cormorants strapped to his back,
necks craning out of their wicker cage
like sight-seeing dogs.
A quick look at Mongolia
through a hole in the Wall.
China got loose,
it escaped the hotels,
the tour buses, the itinerary.
It went down a crowded alley,
draped with roast ducks
and paper lanterns.
If I were to follow it,
it might lead me
to a restaurant in London,
San Francisco, or Toronto,
or like today
come together again
in the face of a girl
who sells me a phone
at Radio Shack.
Maybe Tomorrow Night?
by Odin Roark
Early last night
thinking got heavy.
Uncomfortable feelings crept in.
The mix was,
I don't know…
Revealing, I guess.
How much?
How much is one person supposed to carry?
How strong this body thin?
Have I not hammered enough nails,
untangled enough twisted synaptic vines?
When will it be finished,
this lean-to in the forest of high-rise expectancies,
these mindscapes where insomniacs of abandoned conscience
meet persistent awareness in flames?
Is there only sitting alone on empty subway cars
careening through express stops,
where ghosts of ancient ether float suspended,
waving their giddy hands as the blur passes,
where the burning midnight oil insistence
searches for better light,
illuminated dream signs,
visions that never cease?
That was before I reached the last stop,
climbed the stairs into midnight darkness,
listened to my cacophony of silence,
pushed through that familiar door,
straddled my stool at O'Riley's,
made my pencil write,
while five and dime glassware
became faceted crystal of my dreams,
sloshing melted memories about,
elbowing their way into napkin after napkin,
crossed out words after crossed out words,
caramel river after caramel river,
finding my liver oh so accommodating.
Later last night,
I found my perch atop the familiar railing.
You know,
the same one as before,
and before,
and before,
studying the arc.
Did you know water runs deepest
when you know it's really the right time?
And they keep telling me two-hundred feet
allows plenty of gravity to collect.
But…
They've got me in this awful green room again.
Took my pencil.
Gave me a crayon.
Black this time.
Words don't care.
Curls and lines.
Paper doesn’t care.
Late last night,
they said I had to stay awhile.
Again, you know,
‘til I convinced them, again
that I'm all here,
all together,
just a little lonely,
no harm.
You know,
I'm thinkin'
there's gotta be another way,
you know.
Better than making you up all the time.
Maybe we could meet,
you and me.
Coffee.
Nothin’ fancy.
Just...
Maybe early
tomorrow night,
before my believin’ gets heavy again.
Maybe?
Sweetheart?
I stand before the marble block,
its cold breath waiting.
Others see stone~
I see the boy already turning his head toward light.
My hands ache with the old obsession:
to free the form God hid inside,
to follow the faintest curve of muscle
as if it were scripture.
Day after day I listen
for the whisper beneath the hammer’s strike~
the pulse of a shoulder,
the tension of a tendon preparing to rise.
The body is a language,
and I must carve every syllable true.
Patience becomes my companion.
I chip, I smooth, I kneel,
studying the marble as though it might breathe
if I only learn its secret.
I chase the form as pilgrims search for the sacred~
aware it forever retreats into light
yet unable to stop searching.
When, at last, the dust settles,
when David’s gaze finally lifts
toward the giant only he can see,
I feel the quiet truth:
I did not create him.
I merely uncovered
what had been waiting
for someone stubborn enough
to believe it was there.
There was a time so carefree we were.
Time we had more than enough!
A blue sky meant a sunny day.
Our eyes with merry would dance
Thinking of another day in a cave;
A fascinating world compared
To the insipid one we lived.
There was a time so carefree we were.
Time we had more than enough!
A team of young spirited we were
Roam and explore deeper the
Womb of Mother Nature, we dare.
Our first project we mounted
Which “Save the caves” we called.
There was a time so carefree we were.
Time we had more than enough!
First time my knees were jelly,
On sight of a dark gaping mouth
Waiting in the bush to engulf life.
Turned back I did to run as fast.
But mates pulled me back, by force.
There was a time so carefree we were.
Time we had more than enough!
Romance in the air, stories got weaved;
Studying life of cave swiftlet was it,
Identifying fauna and flora was it,
Paint flowed, guitars vibrated, cameras clicked
Whilst meeting were some hearts in secret.
There was a time so carefree we were.
Time we had more than enough!
The dark deep tunnel getting darker
And the mud stickier; all excited we were.
Droplets, ice cold, poked our faces
From fissures in rocky roof, craftwork
Of nature’s carvers; fascinated we gazed.
There was a time so carefree we were.
Time we had more than enough!
The caves’ beauty we set to restore;
Scraps in loads we met, grotesque
Craftwork of human; underground water
We met, smelling of chemical pungent.
Awaken did we, the sleeping authorities.
One day our mission was accomplished
And the caves found back their beauty.
5/08/16
Contest: Caves
(We worked on "Saves the caves" project in 1992 and were offered a shield in recognition - I dedicate this poem to all friends who made it a success)
Q: What would Roy Rogers have been called if he had been a singing farmer?
A: King of the Plowboys.
Q: In the Beowulf saga, who was a male child of the hag Grendel?
A: A real sonofawitch.
Q: What's the slogan for an ad campaign for a certain fabric in Copenhagen?
A: "Something is cotton in the state of Denmark".
Q: What is fear of joining a fitness club?
A: Gymtimidation.
Q: When she worked onstage in a comedy, what could actress Elaine do for an audience?
A: Keep it in Stritches.
Q: What might you call the LGBT version of the glass slipper story?
A: "Transgenderella".
Q: Also for theatre and film buffs--What would you call public transportation in a ghost town?
A: A streetcar named Bizarre.
Q: Why did the man tell the 911 operator to please send help quickly when his spouse appeared to be choking?
A: It was a matter of wife or death.
Q: What is someone who hitchhikes across the country studying different dialects?
A: A roads scholar.
Q: How did the Glasgow "Evening Times" reporter headline the story of the party boat that sank after hitting an iceberg?
A: Scots on the rocks!
Form:
Burning daylight
Burnt the whole daylight
and entered the dark,
Only to learn plight
of firefly that glowed in the dark,
Burnt the whole daylight
to find the spark,
Lost in depressive fight
else had touched high as skylark,
Burnt the whole daylight
to hide the shame,
Of unfairly attained delight
else had not brought dis fame,
Burnt the whole daylight
in kindness and good intent,
For sound sleep of the night
of peace and content,
Burnt the whole daylight
in gaining education,
Studying also at night
for better gradation,
Burning the whole daylight
life was an absolute waste,
Knowledge rose to height
but humanity lost its taste !
Written May 6th, 2015
For contest by John Lawless
You’re that girl at the party
The one who I see coming
Who’s going to want to talk about
Slavery or banjo or climate change
I’ve been waiting hoping you’d be here
It’s been a nice time drinking my wine
Talking about what’s on Netflix
Like most people here want to do
But not you
You’ve been studying the movement
Of Minstrelsy across the seas
In the Eighteen fifties
As you proceed to describe how
A mother’s daughter might or mightn’t
Be sold with her at the option of the buyer
I drink in your dyed-scarlet hair and your tie dyed dress
Your fingers move across the strings
Like a spider’s legs I am not doing something new
You say but you are original unique in my experience
I can’t explain what you mean in the world
To say you’re an angel or goddess
Doesn’t do you justice
Angels aren’t as sad or angry as you
And so don’t retain the real essence of beauty
You’re the messenger of truth
Beauty however black however dark
My emerald rose
I imbibe your radiant soul
February 16, 2020
The first time I felt my sorry heart break
into pieces on my tear dampened lap,
a new feeling washed over my body.
It wasn’t anger, hatred, or disgust-
but like my soul had been torn from my chest:
returned to me in the palm of my hand.
Composure; that’s the word- it’s difficult
to keep your composure when you can’t breathe,
when the clouds overhead are cast aflame.
I do want to forgive your guilty face,
but each time I look at it, I can’t see
the remorse in your eyes, the tears in mine
have fallen continuously since then:
since I lost whatever spark that we had,
and it kills me to admit that I’m tired.
No matter where I search, I can’t find you:
I can’t find the person I knew before,
the one who would “never do such a thing”.
It’s eating me alive, the thought of it:
your eyes studying her beautiful frame,
your mind longing for what’s kept out of reach.
The thought of you looking at someone else
the way I thought you only looked at me
strips the glue from all my broken pieces:
I wonder what you see in me at all.
Part of me understands why you’d do it:
the other half is wishing you hadn’t.
All that I wanted was to be enough,
to be the one you are afraid to lose.
Forgiveness; that’s the word- it’s difficult.
The man in the bar
I met a former airline pilot in a crowded bar
we had to share a table, a thing I do not care for
Without introducing himself, he said he was
studying Einstein’s relativities theory.
I said it was too complicated for me and opened
the racing section in the newspaper.
He said it was easy and proceeded to tell me
how easy it was:
“All clocks strike twelve at noon, but not at
At the same time, it depends on the time zone.
in a vacuum, clocks never move as they need
a gravitational pull to push time forward, the pull
depends on where the clock is placed, therefore
time is relative depending on space and time.”
I tried to look rapt and looked back on the racing page
a horse named Scandinavian beauty had good odds
I thought of a girl I once knew who lived across
a bridge; wished the time had been more relative
go back to things before I got old.
Ps. The horse came in fifth; we can’t always win.
The charm of a well written love poem
Can actually bring one to tears
Well chosen words conveying your feelings
Of love but also your fears
Fears that a loving romance will fade
And become so very routine
To keep love alive must remember each day
Show her how much her love means
Show her by all the small things that count
That prove she's a special lady
The one you've chosen to be with forever
No ifs, no ands, and no maybes
Amazing how they keep the fire burning
Small things that mean so much
Things that may seem unimportant to some
As simple as a gentle touch
Don't get me wrong, I'm surely no expert
When it comes to the secret to fidelity
But after many years of studying about love
These things are written indelibly
The charm of a well written love poem
Can actually bring one to tears
Chosen words that promise love forever
Through all of the coming years