Long Such that Poems
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I'm not sure how it all began,
When this soothsayer became heroic to some.
As he molded a story of greatness,
Against what our nation has now become.
Those that listened were mesmerized by his fable,
As he wove a tale of conspiracy and doubt.
Then his minions spread the veil of shadows,
To every corner with whispers they could shout.
Almost miraculously, this mirage became a leader,
Beginning a reign that some wish to forget.
But his actions won't be lost to history,
Since the aftermath lives on to regret.
Early on in his term of division, the
Tactics would erode basic trusts once held high.
Such that... we are a nation made up almost entirely of
Non-natives, yet that must stop, & he'll build a wall with lies.
Soon after, attacks were focused on the media,
As 'fake news' ran rampant in the press.
While the mouthpieces, such as, Hannity and Tucker,
Provided his message to the ignorant, more or less.
It wasn't long before this infection on credibility,
Attacked our very own intelligence community next.
Because ol' 45 would disparage the CIA & others,
Preferring Kim Jong and Putin's rhetoric and text.
Now to be fair, he did accomplish something...
A huge tax-cut that the wealthy endorsed.
So while the rich got richer, the melody sang loudly,
While the poverty of others was reinforced.
Throughout this one-term the primary focus,
Seemed to be undoing everything his predecessor had done.
Now while most of these efforts were negated,
The passionate pursuit gave himself, so much fun.
The ongoing hatred towards Obama and Hilary,
Was a constant theme in the Trump-laden White House.
Lending fuel to the fire of partisan politics, while
Staff and contemporaries posed quietly as a mouse.
The end of this pathetic term was filled with failure,
As dual impeachments and the lost election were to blame.
Followed by legal matters that consumed a nation,
As proud followers were jailed in his name.
Yet the MAGA minority spread far & wide to the horizon,
Where vocal women shamelessly sought his favor to gain.
So between Marjorie, Lauren, and Kari...
Their BDE chorus was tuned to deny any pain.
While conducting this orchestra of disaster,
A nation held hostage, sought truth in the wake.
To the point where regardless of convictions or pardons,
Our Constitution and democracy, will not be proven fake.
In reference to Shadows, a novel entitled, Shadows of The Plains,* and two Biblical references stand out. One is the Apostle Peter's shadow relating to healings and the other is the very infamous 23rd Psalm of King David.**
The novel of 272 pages made reference to Shadows only once, but the story permeates the reality of fear as the early American pioneers blazed the trails in their westward movement. The Shadows they experienced were not those of a standing or immovable object like a pole or tree, but rather that of Shadows reflecting live and moving mortals.
Shadows are powerless, but the power lies in what is being reflected. However, the presence of the FEAR of the Shadows is very real and can easily hold us captive long before the appearance of the figures behind the Shadows. But not all Shadows are created equal. Some Shadows may also represent the unknown entities, real or otherwise, that lurk and haunt us in the dark places of the soul.
Peter's Shadow was such that the people believed that it would bring healings to the sick as the miraculous power of God flowed from the body of Peter as an electric current utilizing copper wire as a conduit. One might say that this was a Shadowy miracle. The Scripture does not specifically say that they were healed. However, it is certain that Peter's Shadow was one that generated faith, not fear.
King David speaks of 'the Shadow of Death' which he walked through and had no fear of evil because he declared that God was with him. Fear is most definitely an enemy to be confronted in the Shadows, and King David indicates that 'fear is a choice'-"I will not fear".
042820PSCtest, Shadows, Chantelle Anne Cooke *Shadow On The Plains By Alice Wheeler Greve **Bible: Psalm 23:4, Acts 5:15,16
...He reformed the routing patriots,
formed a line atop a rise, Perrine’s Hill,
brought in General Knox and the artillery,
commanding the mass through sheer force of will.
He needed to buy time for the main force
to march on and join up in the battle,
the British kept coming, soon to attack,
convinced they still had the patriots rattled.
Before in battle the Redcoats just had
to flash their bayonets in the bright sun,
that was enough to scare Continentals
and assure them the battle was won.
But they were no longer facing such men,
the Americans had learned Europe’s game,
they did not flee at the sight of steel,
gave hard volleys once the foe was in range.
Britain’s field commander, General Cornwallis,
made several attacks to break up the line,
only to run into fire and rage,
with his Redcoats turned back every time.
They he tried to turn Washington’s left flank,
the boldest maneuver of the fight yet,
but the main force had come, and pushed forwards,
striking hard under young Lafayette.
Seeing there would be no quick victory
the British withdrew there forces back,
both armies in defensive positions,
the fight would become a long slugging match.
Soldiers hunkered down as across the fields
artillery thundered and cut loose,
both sides trying to break up the other,
their foe’s ranks they sought hard to reduce.
The heat was such that many of the men,
suffered and even died from heat stroke!
One man passed out and his wife manned his gun,
fighting on alongside all the blokes.
Then Washington sent Nathaniel Green
with artillery up towards Comb’s Hill,
a high position on the British left,
from which the guns could enfilade and kill.
The British saw their hopeless position,
and quickly began an ordered retreat,
marching north towards Clinton’s main force,
having blown their opportunity.
Washington saw his enemy leaving,
and sent Mad Anthony Wayne forward,
to harangue the British as they marched off,
cutting down men despite their good order.
And through the battle ended as a draw,
for the nation it was victory,
they’d kept the field in an open battle,
and matched the Redcoats in soldiery.
This changed the calculus of the whole war,
all knew battles would be more costly now,
England would no longer campaign in the north,
hoping for easier prey down south…
Rudyard said it best, but now it is my time to build on another’s table,
If you can shun the word I can’t, and embrace the phrase, I’m able,
If you can watch the world you love, be torn apart and rent asunder,
But not give way to hate it, or join in wicked plunder,
If you can lose your mind and heart as well, but lift yourself from such that hell,
If you can watch your labor tossed aside, but work on despite the pain inside,
If you can hear advise from friend and foe, that works to mock your toil true,
And yet apply the good that’s said, and rise to climb the mountains new,
If you can lose your love when comfort fades, but rage on through that stress,
If you can endure the trials of this life, and still not worship tests,
If you can achieve the most from Gifts within, yet not give in to greed within,
If you can seek to share, and watch your house unravel while others bleed you
bare,
If you can feel the weight of atlas on your back and see Christ’s body torn,
And yet refuse to relinquish hope to see the dawn of earth adorned,
If you can love all women but none too much,
If you can love all things with open touch,
If you can be a fool, and still forgive yourself for errors of your past,
If you transcend sin, yet still restrain the pangs to judge your sister’s lapse,
If you can run this race with gentle care, yet unafraid to risk it all,
If you can fall, and fall again, and yet again, but never lose your faith,
If you can run this race, yes sometimes slow, and without reaping still yearn to
sow,
If you can trust in God, through thick and then, and not give sway to doubt in men,
If you can love like Christ, our God above, yet still resolve to confront wrong,
If you can see affections wane with time, yet still acknowledge angel’s songs,
If can shun all ugly sounds, yet still embrace the beauty that keeps you true,
If you can stand all things, and still at end, love you for simply being you,
If you can be the gentle sort of old, yet still rebuke with mercy bold,
Then you will know the truth of God,
Then you will see the life that drives and helps us strive throughout our lives,
If you can run this race my son, and love and live despite the cross you bear,
Then my son, and only then, you’ll be a Man who dares to dare,
To yes believe in God above,
And be a vessel of her love.
Roman à clef tragicomedy...
overlaid with façade of fiction = Mein Kampf
No need for yours truly to dig deep,
(albeit bonafide figuratively)
by Dickens thru mine Uriah Heep,
a gnarled mass creep
ping, comprising, encompassing, glomming
abysmal existence strewn with hard times,
such that I wanna leap
out this metaphorical bleak house,
a black hole in the wall swallowing
i.e. disallowing any peep
ordinarily yawping, proliferating, flirting...
now fumfering lamely issued by keep
ping low profile super tramping cheap
trickster, our mutual
friend Matthew Scott Harris,
where lack of functioning heating unit
(think male organ if ye will)
upended, rendered, discombobulated...
scrappy body electric hominid
to experience quality sleep.
Principal reason I write
to balance and aright
unexpected largesse
(thank you dad), where
eyes suddenly got bright
and bushy tail incessantly
wagged day and night,
a sensible palliative temporarily
eased penury plight,
which cash equivalent,
viz four Benjamins alleviated quite
helpful thwarting necessity to fight
off bill collectors brandishing
armstrong lance's compelling me
to summon black knight
in shining armor lodged within white
castle amidst prickly bishop
obviously one prone easily to excite
amusing little lord Fauntleroy
groomed as heir to throne,
enthusiasm since his birth did ignite
(Aesop pose) storybook life,
where fanciful elation did take flight
buzzfeeding, droning, feasting
on par with Mister
Bumble bee in flight
sweet nectar amidst lilies of the field
analogous to stripling Adam - fine lad
eve vent chilly seeking delight.
Ah to gather rose while ye may
tis futile wishful thinking,
now at mine three
score orbitz round sun,
which libido far out at bay
prurient predilections once
spawn time wracked to lay
waste vestal virgin such as... Little Dorrit,
now... raging hormones stagnant clay
hardened, atrophied, eutrophied,
jackknifed limp bizkit
long bereft testy tickle
yar seaman quizzical,
slack jawed, and sullen at
deserted abandoned cobwebbed quay
ignored do not enter, keep out,
private property signals desiccated,
no place for Peter to take holiday
barring ingress to ply skin flute
amidst hollerin hootenanny,
perhaps convincingly explaining
welcoming Voldemort without delay.
My co-worker posed a theory to me
That our boss was born one hundred years later than she was supposed to be
Neither of us could exactly put our finger on why, but I had to agree
No makeup, unbrushed hair, bad teeth
As though she just awoke from a long, troubled sleep
Her mannerisms seem out of sync somehow with contemporary company;
Solitarily sorting books in the back room of the used bookstore she manages each day
to remain distant and dazed, as though unfamiliar with a world that has dramatically changed
Nobody knows how old she is, but I’d guess upper-middle-aged
She never seems relaxed or at home with where she has landed, always looking around as she walks through a room or doorway, ever vigilant
She shows up each day looking like last night was another rough one, but her speech and ways seem oddly quaint and well-bred,
strangely legalistic and more formal than needed in this squalid environment.
She simply doesn’t seem at home in this place;
She can stand two feet away from me and a co-worker as we’re sorting while joking and, while our hands are busy working, our minds are away playing,
But she is immune to the general contagion of the strange repartee and laughs exchanged, seeming to hear nothing we’re saying.
Never laughing herself nor conversing, guarding her thoughts, observations, and history from judgment, and getting lost in her own world such that the sudden awareness of the presence of another person can induce a violently startled jump the other way.
And I know what that’s like, as I’ve spent many years in that state,
so it is painful to see it in another neglected appearance
and another needlessly nervous wreck of a person who is
wishing to just go home or one day somehow escape this place
where her body has ended up by way of a misdirected fate.
But today she took my co-worker and I by surprise when, after being shown a book with a cover featuring a picture of Jesus playing golf, she smiled widely and lively, and she replied,
“That’s ridiculous! Everyone knows Jesus only played tennis!!”
It was just a small joke, but it was like seeing a rainbow in the refracted light on a dark sky
It gave me hope that, despite being meant for a time perhaps one hundred years ago, in this day where she was nonetheless sent, she may someday come home.
The bright orange rugby shirt I had,
When I was fourteen, fifteen, sixteen and seventeen,
Was my trophy and my pride and joy,
Never to be deprived of me,
Even if I complained to my parents or to their friend,
To have been seen to be a boy too much,
Or, in other words, mistaken as a superior person,
With other sociology to fulfil all my wishes.
I was just assertive and intelligent and all that,
A fashion icon, an example to others,
To disabled people or to church young persons,
Who were both the same to me, like each other;
They just wanted to fit into society,
To mark their case for more wheelchair rights,
Or in order to state their reason for believing in god.
I had my identity, my beliefs, and my role models,
Listened to them in respect, with amorosity:
I knew what I wanted to do in life,
And my goals were of course reasonable,
Because they could be achieved no problem, abstractly.
But that was it, and there it was,
Objectively everything sounded fine,
Doable, but what you thought about it,
The practicalities weighed you down,
Taught the string which so dangled entertainingly,
As a condition that was more of a pleasure,
To make, to work out such that your desires happened.
So my bright rugby shirt said it all really,
That I should have my desires and goals,
That I should be met and facilitated in life,
And not my parents or those church leaders,
That I was supposed to follow.
I did not ever have to state my case beforehand,
Before the meetings about my future and care needs,
Because everyone knew I was an atheist,
Able with expression and communication,
Able with much trust for other people.
I was in Germany once with my parents,
Dressed as usual in the clothes that I like,
Without hesitation, care or timidity;
My jumper may not have been bright orange,
But it was still colourful enough to attract attention.
So my parents were embarrassed, particularly my dad,
Who was a war veteran true and sensitive,
And so from then on we hid inside shops,
And even stayed longer in restaurants,
Because all the wheelchair spaces for the cafés,
Were outside those cafés at tables on the pavement;
So we shopped, visited the toilet more, went to museums,
Instead of drinking coffee in the cafés of Berlin.
EVOL UT I ON ... NO 1 TU LOVE
(The Eden Agenda III)
I have loved most everyone, yet so few have loved me back.
So much good I have done, but suspicions aroused, they attack.
How I so long to drown my sorrows and drown in a tank of arrack.
Is it that they are taken aback, or is it ‘true love’ they truly lack?
How can one with so much love get so little love back?
As long as I have lived, I’ve lived to love so long as I’ve loved to live.
But how can I live for long in a world that does not love to give? ….nor has love enough to give?
Surely I must grieve.
…Or perhaps I shall evolve to no longer believe in all that I perceive.
Therein lies the urge for the surge of my dirge.
Rejected of love, subjected to hate - now dejected with life.
So sensitive that my soul is sliced by the blunt end of a knife.
To whom shall I turn for bandage for these emotional scars?
Even in moments of desperation I’ve looked up to the stars
For out there [I’ve been told] is that which is the Sea of Tranquility,
All I have here is a Dead Sea - in which to drown with my vulnerability.
My shadow refuses to be seen with me - it’s nowhere to be seen at high noon,
Come setting of the Sun, it runs further from me - and stretches out for the Moon.
Why do I not shine such that the Sun beams …and perhaps even squints?
Why do the vultures retch? ….and away from my carcass, the hyena sprints?
I have looked up to the raindrops from heaven - simply yearning to be kissed,
But even they, with accursed stealth - my sad lips they missed.
Who shall cut me a slice of love?
Please apportion a portion.
Who will pour me a cup of warmth?
Please don’t ration the passion.
My spirit is broken, the Spirits have spoken…
The daemons mean to take my life as a token.
Let ‘Caution’ throw me to the wind, I pray;
Havoc, please invite me out to play.
Misery, won’t you hold my hand ….everyday?
Loneliness won’t you be my friend? …Please stay.
Oh, how I feel so low, so lifeless. But then, who cares?
Just another life less….
….another life less
…just another lifeless.
The evolution of my life, I’ve looked at from back to front:
……no 1 tu love.
The creation of my life, I’ve looked, from on high to low:
…….Love from above.
(The Fg 81.5.8)
In this noisy world of busy lifestyle
That seldom show silver lines on dark clouds,
When time speeds so fast one can’t hope to catch,
And goals flex such that one can’t hope to reach,
Where’s that tranquil time with one’s very self
To fill up stillness to its spilling brim--
Absolute silence? It’s nigh but a dream.
One might go to the wilderness of poles,
Or reach to the roof of world’s tallest crest,
Relentless would the heart beat, nonetheless,
The sound of breath taken in and released,
And that ever present noise of one’s thoughts
That whine even when one’s alone with skin,
O Absolute Silence whither art thou?
To escape, one flees to world’s far edges
To be in touch with one’s inner most core,
A few moments far from maddening crowd,
But what when this passing haven’s no more,
Time comes to leave, back to the hell called world.
Oh, so soon from heaven and back to hell!
Fleeting proves such silence sought from without.
Life is to live on one’s abilities,
Experience all one’s possibilities,
To sit beside one’s Self, listen to it,
And in end see the light of self’s lamp lit--
Much harder than scaling a tallest peak.
Man’s mortal weakness starts when he can’t sit
Alone and be in commune with his Self.
One wonders if the truth of this cosmos
Lie buried deep in such silence of self
Along with all of doubts, all of questions,
Man’s ambitions and all mundane desires.
And all this when spill over from his mind,
He needs to be at such secluded spots
Of sheer stillness, be they tall mounts or poles…
Well past hurries to be bodily still,
Past all worries be utterly tranquil,
Hustle, bustle, all flurries, just to chill,
And in touch with man’s true nature to feel.
And still. a passing cloud, a fleeting dream,
Which when ends back to reality grim,
Unless one rises from bottom like cream.
Poets perhaps feel it once in a while
When after all the mental marathons
And catharsis of deep-felt emotions,
A poem just fails to materialize,
And all his being goes in deep silence
Of thoughtless state we call meditation,
And in the end is born that lost poem.
______________________
Reflections |15.12.2024| silence, spiritual
Poet’s note: This is a blank verse. Each stanza is a septet, no septet royal nor any rhyme scheme.
Being noble is good and desirable.
Goodness is pleasant and noble virtue.
When one is good and pleasant. It’s also true
He should be praised in manner most noble.
Praise,good and pleasurable experience,
Shames me for I beg for it secretly.
Man seeks praise deep in his dirty conscience
So he is of all creatures most greedy.
Greed is not a virtue. It is a vice.
This has to be said quickly otherwise
You, my black friend, may begin to forget
Men that we are, can never be perfect.
Liberality, to give; not to hold back.
It’s opposite of greed. The liberal soul
Shall by providence and fortune be fat.
This age long truth is something we all know.
Magnanimity, to help largely.
Magnificence fuels the magnanimous.
See what thing virtue has turned you-famous;
With your name on lips you are yet to see.
Courage means being useful in a struggle.
It demands that certain laws be broken
To achieve the good of a trod people;
Piling sacrifices till truth’s proven.
Heroism.Terrorism. Folks and strokes:
See differently where they stand each moment.
The world keeps talking even till it croaks.
Yet east and west can’t come to agreement.
About nine eleven and desert storm.
The Bushes Being Laden with wars and strikes
Are both heroes and terrorist alike.
Each seeing the other in the other form.
The wind that breaks the mighty Irokos,
I will take my time, on these lines, to weave.
Such that, your praise, all will come to know.
Praise shames me giving or receiving it.
Because (I know) secretly I seek it,
Yet it’s altogether honorable.
And for you today, I’ll take the trouble
Such desirable virtues you possess.
Liberality.Magnanimity.
Nobility. Courage (I must confess)
Gentleness.Prudence and Humility.
What teacher taught you such wisdom to know?
Fortune and Providence embrace brave men.
Good luck and riches awaits the prudent.
The heavens smile upon the liberal soul.
They all smile at you. We all understand,
Yet some may have for you a different song;
That such and such you suppose to have done,
But always remember. You are just man.
These lines can go on spinning with praise,
But let me reserve what’s left within
For other future occasion and place
Where they will with much nobility fit.