Long Teak Poems
Long Teak Poems. Below are the most popular long Teak by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Teak poems by poem length and keyword.
The Bandits Rendezvous
By Franklin Price
9/1/2019
Once upon, a Far East time, in nineteen sixty eight
The GEEIA squad made history on a non-remembered date
The plan had come together to build a club house new
When it was completed, was named, “The Bandits Rendezvous”
All the parts, to build it, were scrounged from miles around
Taxpayers did not pay a dime to raise it from the ground
The name not given lightly when it opened on that day
At the south end of the squadron a base called Cam Ranh Bay
Our scrounger, whom I will not name, got a jeep, for quarts of rum
From a needy alcoholic, there were a few where we were from
Had it flown down to us, in a Hercules with space
Then drove it down to Phan Rang where another trade took place
The jeep was traded, for a truck,with wood to build the core
Some was traded to the Navy, who poured the concrete floor
Soon the walls were standing and the roof was on the top
But the inside of it barren, and,. for sure, we could not stop
The middle was an open bay. The ends were spacious rooms
We made them into places that were far from storage toombs
The south room had a large teak bar, flown from the Phillipines
The north a full blown kitchen, a place to cook our steak and beans.
Parachutes adorned the middle bay, to provide some ambience
When we had our first unveiling, brass was invited to the dance.
General McConnel came, he was the Air Force, Chief of Staff
Along came other Generals, not the lowly riff and raff.
Don't remember any congressmen, no congress ladies at the time
The drinks were flowing copiously for opening this crime
The General gave a rally speech that made us all so proud
It was in the early evening, we were a drunken, rowdy crowd
When the night was over, and I staggered to my rack
I marveled at the place we'd built, from our scrounger's useful nack
He was right there with us, was a pirate, having fun
In the club house, “Bandits Rendezvous”, when all was built and done.
That's my story, I have told it. That was fifty years ago
The statute of limitations, has run out, for all I know
It was all for entertainment, yes, was all this glitz and glam
It helped to be creative in that place called Viet Nam
Joyce K
There is this Lady I know, I thought I knew.
Could I have been so wrong, from my point of view ?
She perceives herself, a cardboard silhouette of a soul,
a papier mache doll, an image we all should know.
A shallow pond residing in the middle of this human ocean
is how she sees herself to be – a very strange notion
for me to comprehend as I look into the depths of her mind
and reflect upon all I know, that has shown her to be so kind,
deep, thoughtful, caring - giving her all throughout
her living a life of advocacy, concern and no doubt,
much, much more than I know or of my word
- in this attempt at poetry – that she might have heard.
This Lady with such a fine mind – a model for man kind –
who looks back in time, within, and cannot seem to find
one moment in a long ( seventy eight years ) life time
to recall, remember, feel her humanness in a flake of love,
a speck of joy, a line of happiness, a pool of blissfulness from above,
a stream of contentment, satisfaction for and from all the good
she has done for this world of troubled mankind, where he stood
the self. the self-satisfied, the self-destructive, and the lost.
I want to believe she has known a flake, a speck. a line tossed,
a pool, a stream and that these have been a part of her experience.
Are known, if not in the conscious, in the subconscious existence.
Is she to be, not but – as we look upon and within – veneer ?
A mosaic overlay on cardboard papier mache, she wants us to hear.
Not a mighty Oak, Maple, Mahogany, Teak, Burl just a paper doll.
Is this the carefully contrived image she believes ?, is this her fall
from grace ?, she thinks herself to be ?, - not the beauty of soul, of acts,
of the face I know, - but a mask to hide what?/, what are the facts ?
Is she this hollow, empty cardboard papier-mache doll ?, devoid
of feelings, of love, just walking through life, living it, must avoid.
I think not, nor can I – not even in my wildest of dreams believe
or perceive of such possibilities - but then, who am I to conceive,
to question the perception of the one who should truly know
herself, intimately better than anyone else on this planet could show.
So all these assumptions I have put out there, I should retrieve.
B. J. “A” 2
May 14th 2005
OLD AND NEW 2 : BOARDROOM
Jackal preyed on dimpled dolls
smiling gold on slender wrist
nosing down a slippery path
scowling schoolboy promoted
beyond his mediocre castle
Mammals sat on polished teak
coiffed moustaches, tonged peaks
feeding unclipped grapevines
old words and wounds
eating raisin muffins
Falcon scribbled notes
watching eyes serving
newly ordained masters
legalese from a previous
age flowed from fine shifting
fingers in a cage
Overgrown thyroid sat there
his infantry lost in teeming
townships blaring transistors
interrogators of another time
peeped at a polished tiger-eye
on his seat
Minds like noisy tools
drilled atomic holes in
the boardroom table
beaded headdresses falling
from fat oozing french seams
They will learn Christmas carols
in mint retirement homes
when the table losses its legs
©GhairoDanielsPoetry1997
7/9/17
Whether or not I ever find what I seek
You are what you eat
Bare foot or with shoes on your feet
You can try, but it'll do no good turning the other cheek
Nights of very little rest or a great sleep
Fields full of wheat
And beets
A rise of temperature causing lifeforms to overheat
You either still got or lost the receipt
Bouts of consecutive victories and defeat
On dirt roads and in the street
In the shallows and deep
On the move or taking a seat
Daily, monthly, yearly and every single week
Some foods that are spicy and sweet
The evidence was or wasn't concrete
Tasks didn't get finished or were complete
Many that just eat greens or meat
On either side of the creek
Far too many that are a fraud and a cheat
Towards them karma and havoc will wreak
Near and far from teak
Regardless of if the terrain is flat or steep
Information kept discrete or getting leaked
Resources that are rich or beginning to deplete
The sun slowly peeps its head in the east, A bird barbet flies towards its nest, Labourer follows the landlord with the beast, Blue heron sits on the teak tree for rest, The big temple bell is rung by the priest, Children run towards the river with vest, Village maiden prepares the harvest feast, Babies feed milk from the blouse less breast, All the events have taken place at least, When the dawn sunshine appears very best, God has done all natural phenomena like Trieste, By which the children of the earth are blessed, We thank the creator for the peace,we assessed.
Ode to My Great Guru
On a silent,spotless teak deck in Lake Tahoe,
a guru stood in silence.
Immaculately dressed in navy pressed slacks
and navy shirt.
The daylight highlighted his gray hair with a
melody of sparkling mirth.
Looking out upon the waters as the golden sun
on Tahoe was joyfully rising,
The American Robins greeted him with their
cheerful morning chucklings.
His wrists, gently on the teak railing rested.
A huge acorn sat, as his only tall,silent companion
with assorted rocks that sunrise.
Tall, scented Pine trees were all about him filled
with Western bluebirds, who seemed to greet
him, "Hello"!
His steadfast, inner peace with this world, always
so magnificently, fully,and joyfully apparent!
And I, knowing him so very well.
Ah, too sweet, it made my humble chest swell!
His love for people and his commitment
to this great planet?
Eternal and wonderfully,apparent and yet
forever growing!
For each and every human being upon it.
Unlimited, in it's profound humility.
So blessed am I to know him.
So very dedicated to all of humaniity.
November 14, 2019
Agency, apt was the day that they came.
Eyes of red flame; a waxpaper gabbaim.
Maintenance workers, how did the place run?
O subterranean lair, set to stun.
Gadfly, gawk well at the faces in crowds.
Blank like new life beneath burial shrouds.
Waiting for traffic to let out a yell?
Rating, chessmaster, is halfway to hell.
Sacrificed pawn, did the carrion crow fly?
Round the volcano thrice, winking awry?
Train station, travelers, widows in white.
Brace, belladonna, and grant visions bright.
Simian intellect, silver flame flecked?
Genuflect, priest, as a sign of respect?
Burning in heads of the mad, lily pad?
O humanity, as cogs you were had...
Yellow king, there in thy city, what lives?
Prisoners with shivs and undoubted missives.
Golem, shall we spend the night here? Let's not.
Jotoba staff in thy hand, thought-robot?
Lycanthrope, hope. At the end of a scope?
Henbane, to cope, steep three days and don't mope.
Flowers in fields blowing brisk in the breeze.
Terror, send a flare? At ease, trees. Trapeze...
O black abyss, do leviathans kiss?
Serpents, when you hiss, spit venom to miss?
Raccoon, thy claw in the mud of the creek.
Why were you digging? Quay, quahog, tale, teak.
Plight of palladium? Poor politesse?
Languid like legendary loves? Lined less.
Tyrant of the wasteland, turmoil. Turn tail?
Vampire, thy fangs. Angel, bottles of ale...
In a corner of my village, where old teaks creak,
Where their feathery green leaves, with breeze, secrets speak;
Near these none, even at noon ever dare to go,
It's believed that at night ghosts has their fashion-show...!
A youth happen to see it; so soon he fell dead.
Anyone who witnessed had to die; stories said;
None, hence, took the risk; teaks grew so strong, stout and wild,
Fancies, as though facts, about ghosts hill-like got piled...!
Puzzle-provoked some men went investigating,
Got annihilated in grievous ghost-baiting;
City dwellers who came to cut the teaks fainted,
Ghosts got their frail physical frames tarnish-tainted...!
One learned youth, could not bear these tales at all,
To reveal truths and lies of ghosts he felt a call;
As though an owl, at pitch dark, unknown did he slid,
Strong-willed, fearless, beside the age-old well he hid...!
At one in the morning he saw the widow walk,
The cast-off village-thief follows; they sit and talk;
Smile; laugh; hug; kiss; coitus endlessly does soar,
As though limits of heaven and hell are no more...!
The widow, on beliefs old, banned to remarry,
He, just once failed, this bad name condemned to carry;
These, indeed, are modern ghosts, the youth understood,
Unloved loving at darkest night under teak-wood...!
Under other trees, he found others as days went,
Unlearning the foolish myths, many nights he spent;
These, he did not reveal anyone; as he felt:
Unloved must love on; though village in blind faith dwelt...!
22 July 2022
One In Five 2 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joseph May
let me give you some history of the Republic of the Union of Myanmar
is that Burma?
it used to be
they won’t let us have more than two children
they persecute us daily
we cannot travel freely and are refused citizenship
I wonder who “they are” so I ask.
rohingya people.
we cannot own land either.
the Burmese are holding a grudge, angry with us.
why?
our ancestors sided with the British
when?
1948 when they came into our country to steal our resources.
which ones?
jade, gems, oil, teak, natural gas
I try to get away from this crazy person.
there are fifty-four million other Buddhists living here.
surely some of them are more positive.
it begins to rain; a monsoon is not much easier to take.
Grow me some gourds and I will carve my drum and bead my shakers; mimicking Gaia’s heartbeat,
I will envision a new world.
A cedar and maple and I’ll build my guitar to sing,
sweet-scented harmonies.
Bamboo and I will carve my didgeridoo with healing,
light-song.
Teak and pear wood and I’ll carve my flutes to
echo across the heavens.
Mahogany and my dulcimer will ring
and drone among the mountains and trees.
Wood is the echo chamber of Mother Earth’s heart songs.
In gourd and bamboo, her joyous laughter is
sleeping within, until fingers dance her awake.
The blood of Gaia, living and flowing in her children, gifts us all with the concert of life.
It is why music, is the universal language,
that all life speaks.