Long Sycamore Poems
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(Part One) The first few hours.
I was just a ordinary man
caught up in the unruly throng,
The mob jeering and ranting
insults on the road along,
I pushed and shoved my way
through all the furore
to see what all the fuss and melee
was all about at the fore.
My heart shrunk as I eyed
in total dismay that ghastly sight,
From what befell my eyes, that Friday morn
befouling that dawning day with blight,
Was a Man sparsely clad, and bloodied soiled,
And about fifteen and a half hands tall,
His nut brown shoulder length hair
now caked and matted in disarray.
The way His hair and beard
was parted in the middle down
i knew that Man then
was belonging to the Nazarene Sect,
And brutally entwined upon His head
was a brambled thorny crown,
What more torturous and bestial
torment can a naked body be subject,
His body oozed and dripped sweat
all mixed with blood and grime,
And even more the gruesome
was the criss-cross lashes mark,
So visible, as He staggered along
on that arduous path that morning time,
Dragging a fifteen cubit long sycamore
torture-stake on His shoulder, bared stark.
His back bent and racked in obvious pain
bearing that one and a half hand in diameter log,
Then when, He stumbled in His stride
and before the Roman Centurion Him wanted to flog,
For that Man's wretched agony
and pain, I no longer could bear to stand,
Then in haste that Man to help
I shed my outer garments and tossed it to another man,
I stayed the Centurion's hand
and hoisted that stake upon my own broad back,
For I was Simon an Grecian man from Cyrene
and favoured arduous labourous toil,
When that frail worn-out Man turned
with blue-grey eyes and looked at me,
I saw in that look, relief and gratitude
then I knew, I did just right,
He sadly smiled as He said these words to me,
"Do you too now drink from this bitter cup?",
And added, "You shall indeed sip
its rim with Me to the end of time",
I knew Him then no ordinary, man could be
His voice so gentle and mild,
And I truly then wandered who this Man could be?
to suffer so cruelly, in the hands of man,
When He lightly placed His hand
upon my shoulder, I felt the load lightened,
as if I walked with a feather
on my back, and not His gruesome burden no more,
As we together trudged, on that path
that road, to Calvaria, that place of death,
I then knew that Man at my side
Was a Holy-man by His touch alone.
Part Three of the Sixth poet honored
(Emily Dickinson) in famous poets dedication series
(3.)
From Weeping Tears, No Longer Shall Joy Find In Heart Anything
Creeping thick fog has dimmed my view of morn's resplendent lake
so dreary is life's sorrows, more than this sad soul can take
yet tomorrow promises mysteries that leap from the dark
tho' my life's worries have wrinkled my skin like Sycamore bark.
Night shall come, with its agonies crying to be unbound
as its bellowing howls screech out, horrendous gasping sounds
very soon midnight moon will swallow up my despondent soul
spitting it out as fragmented black-stained pieces of the whole!
God forbid! That from this nightmare I never dare to wake
to that of Life, dear sweet Love, I never again partake
and from morbid sunken state, my heart crumble and be no more
fallen into heaps of crushed bones, spilled blood and ghastly gore!
Woe! The epic pains such broken-heart images dare'st tonight bring
From weeping tears, no longer shall joy find in heart anything.
Robert J. Lindley, 2- 12-2019
Sonnet, ( The Sad Depths Of Sorrow's Deep Epic Pains)
dedicated to Emily Dickinson, poets dedication series..
(4.)
There's More To The Old Forest Than Its Ancient Trees
As years are peeled back, this gladden heart now truth sees
there's more to the old forest than its ancient trees
mystery in places, savagery in its nights
more than just imagination, it hides from sight!
Yet such does not negate its most beautiful gifts
its Autumn colors, songbirds notes that so uplifts
bounty of its harvests, peace it oft can instill
calm that one may find there, treasures that oft so thrill.
Tho' darkness lurks there deep and hides its evil ways
one can visit its truth, find self most any day
walk along its well worn trails and about life muse
all of its many wonders, in this dark world use!
As years are peeled back, this gladden heart now truth sees.
There's more to the old forest than its ancient trees.
Robert J. Lindley, 1- 18-2019
Sonnet, ( Amazing That This Dark World, Has Such Beauty In Its Forests)
dedicated to Emily Dickinson, in poet dedication series
Note:
(1.)
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emily_Dickinson
(2.)
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/emily-dickinson
Raisin just stared at the chaos ahead
A kitten, confused as she sat there in dread
The world has gone mad, all the people have flipped
She glared at a window where blood and gore dripped
Folk wearing specs that have eyeballs on springs
Rubber bats hanging on elastic strings
Teeth that are pointed that vampires call fangs
A sycamore tree where a skeleton hangs
Raisin leapt back as a gremlin passed by
His mother ignoring the stake in her eye
Even our kitten was quite unconvinced
When someone approached with a brain that was minced
Green painted people with bolts through their necks
“Give us a treat or you’ll suffer a hex.”
Bedsheets with lights in and black holes for eyes
Sound effects belting out groans, sighs and cries
Raisin considered how humans survived
When all of this subterfuge is so contrived
Only a dog who might fall for it all
Might sit there and wait for his master to call
Pumpkins on doorsteps with faces carved in
A Skeleton’s arm hanging out of a bin
One man is walking though he should be dead
Because of the arrow stuck right through his head
Raisin rushed in through the cat flap and panted
“The humans have all gone bananas,” she ranted.
“The dominant species on Earth - it is said
Is out there pretending that they are all dead.”
Rum said, “Don’t panic, there’s nothing to fear,
Today is precisely two months till new year.
If Ronald Rat hadn’t said what that might mean
I wouldn’t have known that tonight’s Halloween.”
Raisin eyed Rum with suspicion and said,
“This three months of craziness fills me with dread,
For any time now, once again they will try
To send cardboard rockets up into the sky.
They’ll get tiny bombs and they’ll set them alight
And watch them explode in the chill of the night
It all says to me that they’re all round-the-bend.”
Then Rum said, “That’s not where the ‘crazy’ will end,
“For soon they’ll be wearing white beards and red suits
And walking on rooftops in black welly boots
But they won’t use ladders as you might suppose
But chimneys and reindeer and one big red nose.”
The door opened wide and their human stood there
Holding a fake severed head by its hair
And Rum rolled his eyes as he said with a laugh,
“Which is why dogs have owners, but we cats have staff.”
An abandoned cottage holds
remnants of secrets unexplored.
the past ~ whispers ~ through
a creaky wooden floor.
Vestiges in gossamer, drape
window frames and doors
through tainted panes of glass
the scent of meadow soars.
Woody stems and vines
cling to crumbling walls
shadows peeling back
memories I recall:
the oracle Sycamore
a hostel to a swinging rope,
like a pendulum
timed in perpetual stroke.
Gazing on orchards
of fruited trees
romanced by busy
droning bees
nomadic tribes
of wide - eyed deer
forage and drink
the creek so clear
cascading toward the river
that lies beyond the bend,
a cloistered Heron in Cattails,
a protracted pose transcends;
leaning in a mantra
of spiritual grace,
resonates the thrum
in a humble sacred place.
echoes of song birds
harmonize in the morn
endowed in devotion,
awaken the dawn.
Mother Nature’s
rhythmic beat
a faithful promise;
she will repeat.
Rear view mirror
Objects, objectively put, are closer
than they appear. But it doesn’t say it all.
With the fair signs that spewed forth once turning to
a slew of pre-twitter pseudo- tweets since.
I once put it down In form Octa-Tri :
In rhyme scheme: aab, bb, ccc .
(“ At the wheel
At night. Uneasy feel.
Narrow misses, though, in nobody’s midst.
Rows of reflectors mark lanes glaring through the mist,
Comforting coolness and sultry night coexist .
Cell service zones change, ding-dongs the phone
Heart fluttering alone
Night unknown”.)
A row of earthy images it failed
rather than showed ,images with eerie
librations and weary nutations .Which
was not Physics, but physiognomy of life.
Like when bashed by kiddy badasses and
basic arithmetic, or when up higher ,
combative but math a behemoth
all the same, and guided perfunctorily
often, and rarely with the right intent.
In the peccadilloes- round, the Tintern
Abbey Sycamore also loomed dour sans
creativity , but the three trees on
the low sky made sense , and then on to
T.ds. equations and tedious times
soured by sleep and steep sloth.
Ingenious in fair measure , now turning
ingenuous on the proving grounds , after,
in the space of a couple of cusps of
light and sound mom was no more and we
whimpered and simpered under a dad who cared
but did not seem to, in his straight-faced mode
Then came falsely flashing , faintly fuming ,
slapdash years of machines and mega hertz,
eggs and vegs, sex and senescence to remain
for ever weighed down by the wayside whey.
Bringing-up-kids-banality apart
( fed mainly on meds for just cough that recurred);
preferring palm-frond’s loftiness cum
deprivation to urban up-for-grabs
benefaction; and the mess of docs, deaths
and a mossy crock of living pain since.
And all the dicey way , never patted
but p(f)anned; tweaked , untweaked ; harmed, ex-harmed;
banked on , debunked ; short-changed, sort-of-changed ;
lumbering on , alive and a-slumbering
and if anything wondering if it’s
not all the mirror’s prim fault
which never once showed my face.
WORDS ON THE SAND (Part 3)
Not distant a young girl watching silent
On her wheelchair. No writing from a limited body
The sand waiting from her what in life is more salient
After she saw the old man, the woman and the boy
Holding in her hands a bunch of ginger flowers
An Atlas Moth Butterfly flew on her bush.
"Don't you ask anything for yourself? Your words are diamond ores".
She whispered like her mother when cuddling her blush
"Nothing I ask for myself. I want to give
My word for the old man, woman and young boy
Only for them my heart can live. I can't them forget.
They deserve more than my limited body.
"What is then that you want more?
That you want to write on the leaf of a Sycamore?
That will be chanted for ever by Homer?
That will be casted in the seas as golden ore?
"I want to write it for them all
On the sands and on waves
On the wings of the sea awls
On the tides hold by alabaster vases"
"The word I want to cast to all humans
Is "Hope". No more I want on this humid sand"
"Hope" she wrote striving with her weak hands
No force of nature could hold that brand
A silence wrapped the whole shore
The sky turned into a deep blue and dark brown
No tide, no wind, not even a glimpse of bodily sore
Nothing she asked to keep for her own
And all in a sudden a thunder broke the immense bay
On the two sides of the Ocean water falls as ascending alabasters
Leaving the abysses open to winds and to sky
Roman vessels appearing with replenished golden caskets
From the horizon four thousand white stallions
Galloping over the sea beds from the centre to the bays
From the right, sea lions directing waves' rebellions
From the left two legions of mermaids riding blue Wales
From Greece Eolous blowing his trumpets for winds to bend
From Crete Minerva came to heal the girl's legs
From Rome Hermes to write poetries about her strength
Finally the Almighty Atlas to lift her from her binding beds
Then silence, peace and a marine scent from the sea
No tide, no bird, no foam, no wind, as it has never been
Only a small bush of ginger flowers under the sycamore tree
Caressing an empty wheelchair cherished by dropping leaves
Picking a rose in a garden of Sundays
Calling your name on a broken branch wind
Looking for clover where weeds are not welcome
Walking the bridge till its time to begin
Dancing in puddles now filled up with laughter
Running through traffic as cars speed away
Searching for words in the headlines of morning
Writing of moons and the stars on display
Collecting my thoughts when I think I will never
Painting a smile on a rusted front door
Lifting a rock just to see what is under
Shopping for clothes in a grocery store
Looking through openings cut in the carpet
Reaching atop lonely sycamore trees
Juggling penguins, now where did that come from
Asking a bird what it knows about bees
Planting a bush in the depths of the ocean
Baking a cake in a rooftop design
Sweating the small when the big stuff does happen
Thinking of beer when I’d rather have wine
Wearing a frown in the moments I’m happy
Pushing a cart with a wobbly wheel
Lurking in shadows that form on the sunset
Dreaming of things that are hopefully real
Finding that all I have written is nonsense
All of the verses above will now show
When all I wanted to say was I love you
Like in these stanzas I’ve written below
Penning a poem to say what I’m feeling
Wishing the phrases will reach to your heart
Sending you hints of my steadfast devotion
Scribbling fonts that we never shall part
All that I am is now all that you make me
There is no one that this man could love more
You are the girl that I’ve wanted forever
Eternally you’ll be the one I adore
So there you have it, quite crazy but true
Poetic ramblings from deep in my mind
Where it is light with some dark in the corners
There is no telling the things you might find
11/03/19
The reason I think this poem is Trophy Worthy is it is one of my favorite poems, because it is me. A good amount of fun and nonsense and a lot of beautiful love which is what fuels my pen. I believe my cadence and rhymes are very good and it was a fun poem to write. I think those who read it really enjoyed it because it made them smile and that is usually my goal when writing poetry.
Animal kingdom was invited to join the forest meadow
Band orchestrated by the deniable dictator, diabolical gorilla king
Causing loads of premature bragging from delighted grand-animals.
Deliriously enthusiastic orangutans began to show off their voice prowess.
Excited flocks, herds, and murders flooded to the pre-set sign up spot.
Furiously signing up offspring, and occasionally a non-mothered village orphan.
Giraffe’s heads appeared beside the treetops, sticking out willy-nilly.
Haphazardly, eagles, owls, and songbirds sat among the leafy, sparkly greening branches.
I was smoothly hidden high in the Sycamore tree with a few cardinals.
Jealous zebras began stomping and spitting, thinking they were not going to get their “due”.
Kind mother opossum tried in vain to do a little conflict mediation, wanting unity and peace.
Lackadaisical sloth took a seat in the branch ten feet above my head, making my branch shake.
Maestro Moran, the appointed organizer, a giant Mammoth gave out assigned places.
Newly arriving animals began choosing partners; not realizing band is solitary.
Old Timer Orangutans began donating band equipment they no longer used, mikes too.
Puma is not invited Brother Bear yelled, stating that Puma always caused trouble in night class
Quintessential beaver suggested we give baby Puma a chance and a few agreed.
Raccoons who disagreed began slapping each other upside the head, like the three stooges.
Sh! A few animal mothers began to hiss. Few of us heard them, as they were not loud enough.
Too many were speaking to hear, and animal chaos seemed to be the order of the day.
Unification nowhere in sight, I stayed put, hoping I was fully hidden. The Zebras were still grumbling.
Very intelligent leaders assess things quickly, and Maestro Mammoth was no dummy.
“Walrus, wolf, toad, and beaver will pick out instruments for students first through 6th,” he announced.
“Xylophones for all of the kindergarten students.” Cheers went all around the forest meadow.
Yippee for the music teacher! Someone yelled. I am not sure if it was a wolf or an orangutan.
“Zebra’s choice!” Maestro announced. Band practice had begun!
Written February 05, 2025
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the depths of my soul,
a well bursts forth,
a reservoir of ancient echoes
and cosmic whispers.
Love transcends borders and time,
sycamore and lotus were entwined
while nightingales serenade the valley
song rituals in moonstone rhyme.
a tapestry of timeworn tunes and cosmic lore.
Her face graces the dark sky, as a moonstone,
long-forgotten vows shimmer in the ether.
Twin fires ignite in galaxies afar beyond,
dragon fire etched our love's sublime zodiac
when prophecy's sword stalks the earth
Our love is a constellation,
forged in the fiery breath of dragons.
The world teeters on the brink
of prophecy's keen edge,
Bound by threads of light
and shadow intertwined.
As I gaze upon the stars,
her silhouette dances.
Woven by light-shadow threads.
she sways as she peers at the orbs,
veiled in drifts of sandalwood and mist
feeling the depth of our bond,
as I softly exhale your name.
Shadows entwined in swirling tornadoes,
bittersweet butterfly kisses linger,
soft lips meet, sending warmth.
Cascading across the skin,
a kismet-proof, mystical fetter.
Cloaked in veils of mist
and warm jasmine scent,
absence transforms into a cavern
filled with nightingale songs,
Echoing through valleys
gently kissed by dawn’s first light
and even within the katabatic abyss,
hope's feather caresses,
Whispering tales of eternity
beneath emerald skies.
Her hollow heart remains an enigma.
Laden with the sweet melodies of doves.
cooing tenderness across valleys.
Kissed by the first blush of dawn.
Shivers dance down her spine.
And even in the pervasive silence,
hope heavenly feather flutters,
whimsical whispers of timeless stories
beneath brilliant, blooming blue,
Over emerald embers, we soar.
Her face was filled with a soft lavender scent.
Despite her passing, her love persists,
through hope-filled caverns,
silver cloud embraces us in light.
We shared our hearts beyond glass urns
Bumping against the seraphic layout of stars,
as a kiss that transcends time itself.
It was after the defeat at Camden,
in the fall of 1780,
British Major Patrick Ferguson
sought to exploit Britain’s victory.
To secure South Carolina’s countryside,
he marched his loyalist forces forward,
threatened the men beyond Appalachia,
said he would lay waste with fire and sword.
He believed that with Gates fast in retreat,
resistance in the south would soon fall,
but he’d not met the Overmountain Men,
and did not understand them at all.
Living on the edge of the wilderness,
they were a hardened and seasoned crew,
who had been fighting Indians for years,
and had defeated more than a few.
Isaac Shelby and John Sevier,
fresh from a small win at Musgrove’s Mill,
were not going to just let this threat pass,
that would have been much too bitter a pill.
A call was sent out for all to muster
at a place known as the Sycamore Shoals,
fourteen hundred militiamen afoot,
they all started off after their goal.
Word was that this Major Ferguson
marched fast to rejoin the British man force,
against such an army they couldn’t stand,
so they hurriedly traced Ferguson’s course.
Even put nine hundred men on horseback
so their enemy would not slip on by,
leaving five hundred patriots behind,
across that fair country did they fly.
Ferguson knew he was being pursued,
and made his camp atop of a low peak,
three hundred feet high with broad wooded slopes,
it seemed a secure place to rest and sleep.
So strong did he feel his position was
that he proclaimed, to calm all his men’s fears,
atop the hill they could hold forever,
no force on Earth would move him form here.
Such confidence had the man in his strength
that his lookouts sadly dropped the ball,
at three o’clock the patriots attacked,
the British men had not seen them at all.
The militiamen surrounded the hill,
following a loose and pre-approved plan,
moving and shooting like the Indians,
never out in the open would they stand.
To make things worse, the British forces had
muskets, best suited for open fields,
patriots carrier Kentucky rifles,
at two hundred yards their danger was real...
CONCLUDES IN PART II.