Long Swift and sure Poems
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I stand before the Grim Reaper, unafriad and ready.
My head facing forward, my back striaght, my hands steady.
A low hum comes from the cloaked face, two lights for eyes,
His arms lift, his robe blows in the wind, his head tilts toward the skies.
His scythe comes swinging down upon my back, swift and sure.
My knees buckle from the hefty blow, my vision becomes a blur.
I stand back up, look into the face of death itself.
I say, "I do not yet know my purpose, but it isn't complete yet."
"I have faced greater fears than you before, and many more to come."
"Your power is gone, my fear removed."
The Reaper, "One day I will have you, though not today."
"Waste the gift of life, and you will welcome me."
"My real power is when you call upon me, and I do not show."
"I can only take, but you can give."
That is when I found my power over death.
He can only reap, but I can sow.
A poet’s death is but the final strophe, the concluding breath of a lifelong composition. It is not an ending, but a calculated pause, a moment where the pen lifts from the parchment for the very last time.
The soul is a well-worn quill, dipped repeatedly in the inkwell of human experience—of joy, of sorrow, of quiet observation. Each day, the poet or poetess has meticulously written upon the vellum of the world, their verses unfurling like the delicate, crisp pages of a cherished book. The vibrant hues of metaphor and the sharp cuts of imagery were the tools of their trade, used to capture the fleeting light of a single moment, to give voice to the voiceless whispers of the heart.
With death, the quill runs dry. The inkwell is empty, its contents now preserved on the countless leaves they have left behind. The hand, once swift and sure, slows to a gentle rest. The carefully crafted lines that formed their life’s work are now complete, the narrative arc fully realized, the meter finally resolved.
The poems themselves are not silenced; they are set free. The bound manuscript of their existence is opened and shared with the world, each reader a new voice giving life to the words. The echo of their rhythm continues to beat, a lasting heartbeat in the shared human story. Their physical form may fade like the ephemeral scent of old paper and ink.
Still, the essence, the collected wisdom and beauty of their lines, becomes eternal literature, an enduring volume on the endless shelf of time. The poet has merely finished their reading, closing the cover on one life’s story to allow the next interpretation to begin.
(Dedication: For Ann with Love.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Ann of my days,
Days that fan cheer,
Cheer weaves each play,
Play that lives here.
Style wears a smile,
Smile that funds cheer,
Cheer lives each mile,
Mile where love piles.
Grace wears a face,
Face of fond light,
Light shines a trace,
Trace of fine sight.
Love shows just how,
How lovely sees,
Sees truth right now,
Now that must be.
Here in these grounds,
Grounds of time past,
Past that goes round,
Round and round fast.
There in those trace,
Trace now and here,
Here in this space,
Space beyond fear.
Swift and sure days,
Days and nights spread,
Spread with light rays,
Rays that purge dread.
Quest in full bloom,
Bloom in sweet chimes,
Chimes that fill room,
Room in sure mime.
Words loiter here,
Here with good grace,
Grace leaps to cheer,
Cheer fronts this space.
Waltz to the tune,
Tune in to bliss,
Bliss in sand dunes,
Dunes in a gist.
Rhymes in good time,
Time that distills,
Distills fond chimes,
Chimes that reveal.
Line after line,
The music floats,
Floats to define,
Define this boat.
Start ushers end,
End frames the start,
Start to prime trend,
Trend with sure heart.
Leon of my nights,
Nights that flood poise;
Poise in the light,
Light that springs voice.
Leon Enriquez
10 October 2014
Singapore
Be Not Afraid
Life’s full of real mysteries and unending challenges,
yet, never despair, rather always be resolute and bold.
At times, some people in varied situations, always
thrive on playing to the certain fears of other people.
Sad to say, it just seems that some people want to be
“Human Creatures,” vice being polite “Human Beings.”
What to do? Do nothing. The actions of those who want
to be rude and nasty reflect the reality of who they are.
Being kind, well-mannered, and always polite does, in
fact, play positively to the “Better Angels of Our Nature.”
In the end, it all turns out to be truly a personal choice
concerning the type of person that one wants to be.
Choose wisely, I say, for the human experience is rife
with those who torment others and are always rude.
A swift and sure judgment at the end of “Life’s Run”
awaits those who are like this, and so, Be Not Afraid!
And remember that some true version of “Dante’s Inferno”
may truly await those who choose to be Human Creatures!
For them, I say, “Good Luck” dodging those hellish flames!
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved
November 9, 2020 (Didactic)
My impetuous pirate self-jumps up to play
I snarl and yell at her to just go away
She laughs as I hide my hazel eyes from her sight
Her faerie soul knows my heart with all of her might
I try to re-capture my delicious dream so dear
But she settles on my stomach and giggles in my ear
I guess we are writing poetry, I say, with a laugh
She shakes her head, and snorts prettily like a giraffe
Wide awake now with nothing pressing or imperative to do
I jump out of bed and make a swift and sure race to the loo
My pirate heart laughs at my frowny face in the mirror
Glad she has have gotten up, my imagination in gear
Oh wandering one, where are you going?
Where are you going?
How swift you move, so swift and sure.
So swift – so sure.
To and fro, up and up, oh what finesse,
Surely you’re the best.
Through clouds of deceit, you’re playing their game,
ere closer to fame.
To him that hears, hear or never be the same,
Else life will web you maim.
There is a way, a way, a truth, a life,
At Calvary’s cross you’ll find that way…
Acknowledge Him Today!
My mother taught me many lessons
First ,about the birds and the bees
Where did I come from mommy?
Oh, I found you in a barrel of Crabs.
Her lessons in decorum were priceless
Walk always with your head held high
But not so high as to drown when it rains.
bless her heart.
She was a stickler for good posture
More so when I wore a new dress
all pretty and frilly
You walk like a drunken spider on spindly legs.
Her lessons in obedience
I’ll always remember
When I say jump, just jump
Don’t ask how high.
She taught me to choose my friends
they should reflect class and dignity
True,God said Love your neighbor as yourself
but he didn’t say, walk with the riff- raff on the street.
Her description of my hair left me baffled
I thought it was always neat
Looks as if birds have been picking out your hair
To build their nests, she often said.
She taught me to be a power to be reckoned with
With words I was to hear often
I brought you into this world
And I can take you out.
To mom, silence was a golden rule
Never ask why just do as I say
Or with one slap
I will turn your face to the back of your head.
My speech was another area she paid attention to
When I spoke her comment came swift and sure
you speak as if you have a hot potato in your mouth.
Lesson on bravery left me in tears
On the day I broke my arm
Am I going to die, mommy? I asked
Yep, like a flea squashed between your fingernails.
She replied.
I still remember these lessons, and smile
I know too that she did this to help me cope
She was the best, my mother.
An unexplored Adventure !!!
I know what will be !!!
There is an emptiness, creating – depression – a hole
that a deep sadness fills – thoughts of it, take their toll
on an alone heart that seeks a destiny with so much more.
The choices one makes, become the hands that close a door
on all that hope was crafting of - those elusive, sublime dreams.
All that is, all that is felt, all that one sees, all that could be, it seems,
comes down to sadness, emptiness, heartache guided by the hand of fate.
Fate guides these words - these feelings, the voices of the gods do state,
that it will be the courses upon oceans, seas and all the rivers of life.
And so, as end days near, what will prevail will be blinded strife
who’s tears cut deep into the heart, like a surgeons, keen knife,
removing emotions, feelings, memories, and without a notion
as to why ?, things are in a void, at a standstill, no motion
left to carry forward, give one hope, give one a reason
from one loved- in the game of love – in this season ?
I feel like a dissipating, fading, disappearing man.
Becoming invisible as my departing hour – soon at hand –
will open a door through which – as swift and sure as it can –
all I sought will run to another, and there, alone, will I stand,
once again, with heart in hand, without hope, the dream is dead
and only photos, experiences, memories, heartache to fill my head.
I will always remember the joys, the pleasures. and all that was good,
All the walks, the talks, the adventures, all the pain, where we once stood
in the silhouette of the others shadow, the others glow, what we came to know
of the secrets that make up you and make up me, secrets that seldom show
their veiled faces to ourselves, yet we have told the other some truths
as we have come to see them, having been born in our youth.
Where has she gone ?, her beauty I have touched twice.
I have to say, if I could every day, how nice.
I will – my Dear – cherish every tender morsel !, until the end.
I will – my Dear – always be ( if nothing else ) your forever friend.
B. J. “A” 2
July 15th 2007
A silver thread within the universe
With sunlight catching on a hurried gleam,
Mercury, where shadows are harsh and terse
Wakes up from a soft subtle silent dream.
The closest neighbour to the solar fire,
It spins its swirls in swift and sure embrace,
Consumed by heat and burning with desire,
A brainy messenger in endless space.
No breath of air lies to transmit soft sound,
No whisper hovers across the stark stone,
No hum stirs from the stark desolate ground,
A lonely vigil across space well known.
We see it trace its path across the face
Of our own sun when skies are clear and vast,
A transit brief that sets a rapid pace,
A secret known that never seems to last.
It shifts its shape with solemn subtle grace,
From star's alignment to the humble vein,
No fixed expression witnessed on its face.
It bears beams of joy and darkness of pain.
It journeys fast from darkness to daylight,
With gracefulness that knows no binding chain,
A shimmering guide throughout the dark night,
Washing the dust and refreshing again.
The emblem of wit and a nimble mind,
Symbol of strong brain held by antic lore,
It leaves the slow and stupid far behind,
To wit, its bounds which we can now explore.
A planet small in shining solar sweep,
The quick swirling silver in human soul,
Subtle secrets spinning Mercury keep
Striving to achieve the fragmented whole.