Long Sure fire Poems
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Listen to God that's sure wise
for He knows you inside out
His way is narrow but always true
a sure fire blessing without doubt
Every day without fail be watching
on your guard listen at heavens gate
for God shall speak in still small voice
make sure to keep that precious date
Be keen never to leave your doors
always stand firm at your post
wait on the Lord He'll appear
by the power of the holy ghost
In God alone is abundant life
when you find Jesus He's the Lord
His ways lead to peace and grace
keep Him close strike His chord
The Lord Himself sends His favor
for His chosen ones shall obtain
all His spiritual blessings for them
giving His cleansing from all stain
('Blessed is the man that heareth me, watching daily at my gates, waiting at the posts of my doors.
For whoso findeth me findeth life, and shall obtain favor of the Lord.')
Proverbs 8: 34,35 (KJV)
Covered Dishes
1
The password is… password, shhh...
Try to remember if possible,
this sure-fire way of getting through the door;
Entering indeed, as with all lithesome ladies,
and their dithering dogs, after
entreating the big dude at the entrance gate,
with licorice sticks and cauliflower juice on ice,
and leaning over long enough to show off the planets,
those spinning orbs of a mathematical universe,
now turning madly and centrifugally, sucking
out the eyes of the pleading fools,
dressed in rage, and wont to feel the ancient eclipses,
those silent but grunting interludes unseen,
all dressed in satin boredom, all flummoxed
as with clowns, dressed in neon failure,
who now offer smiles and winking winces,
to the sad-eyed pedestrians, and
the red-lipped ladies with the wide-brimmed hats,
out to tease with nylon exposures,
around the bleakly lighted doorways
to dark entrances, without eyes to feel.
You were sitting there with legs crossed,
a cocktail dangling from your frozen fingertips,
like a fainted ballerina in the splitting moonlight.
In front of you, on the table, covered dishes
covered tureens, with surprise taste delights simmering,
shouting out in mute languages of the multitudes:
What is under the lid of this blue dish?
What is beneath the cover of this steaming tureen?
I turned to see other dishes and other culinary settings,
and instead, I saw you among the bon bons
and the flaming surrendering soufflé.
You wore that same translucent skirt with
the lightning stripes and the chiffon protestations,
and as you rose from your chair with howling legs,
there was no hell and brimstone in what I saw.
Then as with a silent hungry leopard,
setting exotic eyes on my stilled soul and quivering body,
you took my hand into yours, as easily as one might,
and with straight-staring certitude, we politely exited
from this quiet pedestrian grille,
this obscure café under the yawning stars,
hidden behind festooning flowers,
draped on hungry trellises,
for the hopelessly outraged.
The most relaxed woman I have ever met, and yet seems quite sane.
Watched her nap in the dining car while bandits were robbing the train.
She slept through gunfire, and barely stirred during her little sleep.
Did she hear the screaming? No. She slumbered and deep.
Is she okay? The detectives asked after they had questioned the rest.
Don’t know, I replied. Let’s give her the ultimate sure-fire mom test.
So, we got as quiet as this carload of strangers could ever get.
And that professional mother came up rapidly, with fire and spit.
Why is it so quiet? What is going on here? She demanded to know.
Surprised, for she had missed the entire bandit shooting show.
Something is off, she said. With many children, it is never this quiet.
Did not stop asking until we rewound the tape showing her the riot.
I knew something was wrong, she said. Next time wake me up, okay?
This woman was the mother of sixteen children, happy and gay.
She had raised them to be responsible and never start a fight or riot.
I learned a professional mother wakes when people get quiet.
T’was a strange and spooky sight to see,
All that smoke risin’ above the trees,
And the tale some told made the heart jump,
“Rabbit’s cookin’ cabbage in the swamp”.
The smoke floatin’ o’er that muddy den,
From a moonshiner well known as sin,
His young’uns and kin stoked up the still,
Sold it as sure fire cure for all ills.
T’was a custom in that lowland swamp,
Long time-honored circumstance and pomp,
For a country hoe down in the barn,
Where yelling’ could start a fire alarm.
Gi’tar, Fiddle, Banjo, mandolin,
Jammin’ and singin’ with big ole grins,
Y’all come and eat some real redneck stew,
Dance bare foot but skip that cabbage brew.
Rabbit was cookin’ up his special brew,
Cause steam was arisin’ to the blue,
Git your madam and those dancin’ clogs,
Go stompin’ at mudtail’s wetland ball.
A liquorice sweet has a real variety
has been popular for many years
liquorice allsorts are everyone's fav
such a mixture makes one hit the gear
A cold remedy really needs full flavour
blackcurrant and liquorice sweets a real cure
to get you moving, drive Catherine's Wheel
so it's really tasty makes it the real deal
Now quite diverse is Liq Torpedoes
your taste buds feel a sure-fire hit
from there you can have Liq Comfits
too many will make you unfit
When one is offered a cake dessert
you think its a sponge in soft cream
but Pontefract Cakes are so different
Liquorice small tablets, not what they seem
Now also there's Cream Rock and Liq Sticks
too many to mention including Black Jacks
these were the days of liquorice delight
lovely memories of your tasty sweet rack!
(Just a little piece from my memories of favourite liquorice sweets in my younger days.)
Well some they say though straight or gay
Get fun from innuendo
While others wait ‘til dark
To get their kicks outside your window
Some do the deed without a sound
Some labour in the dark
While others roars would wake the dead
Some sing out like a lark
Variety’s the spice of life
And while there’s a great selection
We’ve all been screwed from time to time
At every new election
There’s watersports and bondage
There’s even golden showers
Beware though not to mix the two
Or you’ll stay wrapped up for hours
Some wear a mask with eye-holes
Or some dangerous protrusion
Some sport a tail or riding crop
While lost in their delusion
Some women favour veggies
To chippies sparks or plumbers
They relish every celery stick
Or juicy green cucumbers
There’s tales that tell of fishermen
Quite partial to a skate
Though fond of fish I always was
I prefer mine on a plate
Some wrap up like an onion
For fear their skin is showing
While some rush in all fingers and thumbs
With boobs and buttocks glowing
There are those without a conscience
Who swear they’re not the owner
Oh deary me it had to be
Someone elses *****
Though some would up and go all night
Some finish in a minute
While others just the thought alone
Would push them past their limit
While girls dress up as men
And Lads like Cinderella
It takes a little work sometime
To tell female from fella
Uniforms are common place
Considered rather arty
A sturdy pair of coppers cuffs
Are the rave at swingers parties
There’s beads and balls and bangles
They may become a habit
And a whirling whirring weapon
They call the Rampant Rabbit
When picking out a present
For your partners Xmas box
Have Duracell a plenty
In her little Xmas socks
So while sex it has its ups and downs
Even Daniel would agree
It’s a sure fire cure for unwanted frowns
And it beats a cup of Tea
Saddens when strength fritters, muscles run to flab with age;
a once smooth surface wrinkles bold etchings of joy and sorrows
while rough landscape seizes the trophy, buries beauty beneath
creases and squinting eyes and drooping girth and jarring joints.
Look at a mirror—you're yet you at heart though reflection feigns.
Beauty is forever, not strength, not health. Life has a bell-shaped
trajectory—a sure-fire sine curve, though the sonic boom pales
at prime. Blurred vision fails to see the diminishing present
or the long haul ahead; ought to, and so cuddle the rhythm,
bound up to breast the finish line. Else gamble at summer's crest;
winter in the trough with a wobble. What an old age with sighs
and stings, peace paling with aching joints and flabby muscles!
Robbed of youthful verve, a pain prick twitches the nerves.
What a youth spent as if now's forever! We all need a brace ahead
of when the frail frame fails at nine or ninety... or in between!
The wise may think otherwise. Maybe!! The pudding has proof.
All I know: Old age is divine!
© Celestine S. Ikwuamaesi
4 February, 2019
Singers and dancers,
artists and writers,
philosophers and poets,
academics and health professionals,
parents and teachers,
actors and contemplatives,
grandparents and children,
live and die between Heaven and Hell.
Between Heaven's interdependent sensory Enlightenment
and Hell's individual secularized Industrious-Militant Revolutions
Pathology and sin result from severing healthy spiritual tools
for development
from degenerative denatured fake-wealth weapons
for destruction.
Heaven's tools restore peace
where re-tooled weapons
without divine mercy
redistribute Hell's sure-fire punishments.
Sacred tools,
like bicameral hearted minds,
were
and are
for hunting,
gathering
harvesting
cooking
serving
cleaning
recycling
composting
regathering,
impressing
not trangressing,
health-restoring FuturePowers.
Weapons were
and are
for killing
threatening
hating
condemning
judging
repressing
depressing
suppressing wealthy MultiGenerational Matriarchal FlowCycles.
Technological tools,
post industrial,
have evolved from
WorldWideWebs of Heaven
for cooperative social health information
Too often devolved into propaganda weapons
against WorldWideWalls for self-ghettoizing Hell
promulgating competitive anti-social disinformation.
Sacred tools, verbal and non-verbal,
derive from
and help build
heart-paths toward progressive liberties in love
and conserving equitable and responsible compassions.
Secularized weapons
contrive from
and help destroy
other paranoid
rabidly bipolar
mind pathologies.
Sacred tools serve immortal life.
Secular weapons serve up violent death.
Just as word choice
is the smallest detail
of communal win/win communication,
Weapon choice is the smallest
and also least cognitively wealthy, part
of commercial and residential conscious win/win choice-making
well-tooled
politically healthy
true-wealth conserving co-investment,
Articulating
incarnating
re-creating
sacred life evolving in-between
LeftBrain's ideas of Heaven
and RightBrain's experiences of lose/lose Hell.
My shaking hand ~ Inside my pants pocket
Warmed it be ~ When I pulled out my locket
Zuzu's baby picture ~ My dear treasured keep
Always with me ~ By my bed when I sleep
Her face so meek ~ So small and so squib
As she sleeps silent ~ Alone in her crib
I thought that I lost her ~ When she fell ill
Pneumonia's burden ~ A baby's...sure fire kill
Her temperature high ~ One hundred five
She should have passed ~ Somehow, she's alive
An haloed angel ~ Came to me that night
He answered my prayers ~ Gave Zuzu...new light
Ever since then, I've prayed ~ Along with my wife
Clarence, thank you ~ It's a wonderful life
12-13-2018
Movie Magic Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Gregory R. Barden
It's a wonderful life- George Bailey
Ask for wise ways to greet each day,
Speak your fond say in fond kind rays.
Note how you meet each touch of light,
Sense how time greets that slant of sight.
See that you see the truth with zest,
Sight can set free a lovely fest.
Work on words now to bless and heal,
Seek fine endow to forge wise thrills.
Expound the good when sorrows hurl,
Sign cheery moods that bear all swirls.
Reach out to cast and dare inspire,
Seek first and last beauty's sure fire.
Start where you are to chart love's trends,
See your sure star in grandeur's hands.
Leon Enriquez
10 October 2015
Singapore