Long Teapots Poems
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1/15/23
Always toking strong
A continual breeze blowing on
Meanwhile a lot kept going wrong
Over petty things they were so fond
Forming such a close bond
Among all these neutrons and protons
A lot done in a week
Answers found where rivers meet
It is bittersweet
Continual pandemonium
They remained saltier than sodium
Placing unfit things on a podium
In a world full of petroleum
Floors lined with linoleum
Also flowers that can be made into opium
It had nothing to do with teapots
In person not just by screen shots
Experienced firsthand and seen lots
Climbed to the tree tops
Then I started to speed off
No matter if endlessly she mocks
Saw right through it and noticed all the weak spots
Why is it that people do or don't believe in GOD?
Been occurring for Eons
Just proceed on
Keep calm
In the background endless distant whispers
As people portray an accurate or different picture
I constantly am smoking THC and sipping liquor
No love found just some veggies and a chicken dinner
Similar or traditions differ
A lot in the world harmless or a vicious killer
I was often able to win with vigor
Sometimes had a short fuse but a long distance swimmer
They've got bad intentions and much to pay
It can be done in a few ways
Near and far from any statue of Guadalupe
No concern over why do they
Regardless of what all these fools say
It's going down round the clock , sometimes seconds too late
Close or way off from any blue jay
Onto a new day
Among all these species
With foul intentions worse than left out feces
Causing harm by cheap means
I thought peace seemed
Like the better answer but they just spread it like cream cheese
Above and below these trees with green leaves
Became friends with queen bees
Went down to depths of beyond a thousand and sixteen leagues
Continually we bleed
Does anyone notice the end to people and a message that he or she leaves?
Christmas is over and I can remove my mask,
that smile that hides the me beyond
the ding dong merrily on high can go away
Christmas movies I never liked . . .
the lights were nice I could keep those all year
I had to eat a piece of Aunt Terry's fruitcake
the sweet frosting is still choking me
I pushed the inevitable turkey around my plate
like I am a vegetarian folks...
got another teapot to add to my collection of
teapots from previous years
that's six now . . .
I bet there are many like me who dread Christmas
it brings all my memories back
they come creeping and though once happy
they now make me weep . . .
for they are memories of the life I once had
of the promise of love like a delicate flower
now he is a name engraved
and the baby who never saw the sky
there are scars on my soul
so beyond the happy Christmas joy and cheer
I am weather-stained with years
no mom or dad, no anchor to hold me down
so now I go back to hiding in my flowing hair
like a golden river streaming
and I am lost in a sea of nameless faces
(until next Christmas that is)
___________________________
December 27, 2019
Poetry/Free Verse/Beyond My Christmas Mask
Copyright Protected, ID 12-1212-014-27
All Rights Reserved, 2019
Written for the contest Beyond the Niceties of Christmas
sponsor, Bobby Burns
Exercising belief about unknowns.
Makes sense to take your best guess.
Using history, numbers, extrapolation.
Getting the trajectory right for re-entry.
Few dissenters left for climate change, evolution.
Nuclear power brings a process to earth
that occurs only in space. Dangerous
but necessary? Not a risk-averse weasel.
One among many mammals is the weasel,
not known for its consideration of unknowns
but, for its extreme caloric needs, considered dangerous.
My wife says in England violent gusts
forced a locomotive off its tracks. One interpretation
might reasonably be that the mother, earth,
has stopped mothering man. We're entering
a period of unknowns and must evolve.
What might this involve
and what adjustments are possibly feasible?
Walking rather than riding to the subway entrance,
using less electricity until more is known,
preserving agricultural soils and forest land,
buying fewer plastic contraptions.
My brother's washing his pajamas less often.
None of this may make the slightest difference
in how the earth and the sun and universe revolve.
But we are human and addicted to action,
the probable less attractive than the possible.
Also, there's no percentage in respecting death
unless it's imminent. Better to remain centered,
focused on food, child-bearing, war and the poem.
All driveways plowed, all lawns mowed.
Just in time before the first snow, I raked our leaves.
Two eight hour days. What percent of all time is that?
Draw a ray with point A the first pile of leaves
extending to the extrapolating end of universe.
.01 of Aaron. Zero of Zach.
Hawks playing, hunting, mating, canaries in the mine.
Having been too many places to count.
Sex bars, infant formulas, fire crews, last rites, permanent jobs, traffic
tickets, judges' chambers, out houses, wedding banquets, boiling
teapots, frantic centuries, facial tissues, presumed innocent, clear
intentions, stainless steel.
Spiderweb glove. Deerfly earring. Daddylonglegs seeingeyedog.
Memorized songs. Privatized loans.
You cannot know what you're doing until you've done it.
Erudite sweep the floor. Articulate make the bed.
Infrared town hall. Crab nebula. Your last crap.
Eye of the tropical January sun. Slouching toward temperate zone.
Against all odds
I live to breath-in the daylight
that filters through dark curtains.
The green plant (grown from seed)
is still sleeping.
I forgot what kind it is, it has no name
but against all odds
it flourishes in a dream-like way.
In a dormant room
a laptop is singing quietly to itself.
in a distant land
paws pitter patter over moonbeams.
Stretching out my crooked frame
I once again
see the odds are good enough
to join all those other nameless beings
who populate my life
with ink and echoes.
Dormice scurry around brown teapots.
Jackdaws caw and whistle
looking for something to steal
while we, the innominate,
are not looking.
Teapots that whistle on chilled Winter morns
Calling the day to begin as it scorns
Wake up you sleepy head, make room for love
Walking to work as the sun shines above
Thinking of happy and thinking of you
I think I’ll paint it and skies will be blue
Tipping my hat to the songbird that sings
Feeling so blessed for so many sweet things
Hot dogs with mustard and friends who stand by
Watching new parents with babies that cry
Stoplights that muster the traffic that flows
Bakeries that summon to follow my nose
Dinners with Mama, then home to my pet
Help me remember and never forget
Life is a blessing though sometimes a pain
Just like a flower, we sometimes need rain
Cuddles and kisses and good books to read
Pillows for dreaming, ideas that are freed
Grateful for love and the goodness it brings
Feeling so blessed for so many sweet things
Incense hung in the evening air
like the mist and the chains of prayer cranes.
Ferocious gilded guardian framed the gate
through the aged arched travelers trooped
Pilgrims all.
Monks diminutive in form,
draped in square clothes
of sacred orange, bow.
Prayer hands copped over beating hearts.
Business begins.
The business of lodging and lodgers.
The entrance holds the footwear of the prayerful;
worn, unkempt, yet colorful.
Inside the shrine futons fly to ta tami floors.
Teapots boil whistling in the mist soaked wind.
Coins clink into altar boxes before smiling Buddha’s.
Courtyards filled with fall blossoms of crimson mums.
Persimmon colored koi swim in small prayer ponds.
The bustle of the small alpine city does not intrude,
nor follow the faithful as into the moss covered
cemetery with its red cedar groves;
they walk.
Christmas is over and I can remove my mask,
that smile that hides the me beyond
the ding dong merrily on high can go away
Christmas movies I never liked . . .
the lights were nice I could keep those all year
I had to eat a piece of Aunt Terry's fruitcake
the sweet frosting is still choking me
I pushed the inevitable turkey around my plate
like I am a vegetarian folks...
got another teapot to add to my collection of
teapots from previous years
that's six now . . .
I bet there are many like me who dread Christmas
it brings all my memories back
they come creeping and though once happy
they now make me weep . . .
for they are memories of the life I once had
of the promise of love like a delicate flower
now he is a name engraved
and the baby who never saw the sky
there are scars on my soul
so beyond the happy Christmas joy and cheer
I am weather-stained with years
no mom or dad, no anchor to hold me down
so now I go back to hiding in my flowing hair
like a golden river streaming
and I am lost in a sea of faces