Long The end Poems
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art is not the signature at the bottom of a painting
but rather the road to find an answer in the quest of risk worth taking
a master piece is not created from the light the paint reveals
nor from the content that grasps its eyes appeal
a master piece is created as a master chooses which piece of a moment to show.
hands reaching into a stream of emotion in decision of what sight to bestow.
when the feeling is felt that piece to show, the master so chooses
the kiln of desire is fired by the will as thought and emotion infuses
an artist is not discovered from signing a signature at the end of a page.
for the way to interpret feelings is something no machine can gage.
immorality can not be found at the bottom of a picture
it is attained rather by making the footsteps in life ones signature
an artist is not an artist simply by the works one produces
but rather from inspiring creation while rendering another project conclusive
art is not derived from the genes to which one is born
yet eludes the rightful meaning of its dictionary form
although art can twist the meaning of words in a rhyme
words can never truly explain art by design
so it is left to the heart for art to have its meaning
for a deceased artist is the only kind without feeling
The end of the tunnel's in view, oh my
The end of the tunnel's in view
Hair's turned white no teeth of my own
Beginning to shake in my shoes
The end of the tunnel's in view, oh my
Not ready to cash in my chips
Got some unfinished business to tend to
Afore making that final trip
Sadly we don't know the time or place
So be ready for the final bell
Just hope and pray all that good living
Was enough to keep you from Hell
Shouldn't be scared you've led a good life
But there's always that little doubt
Creeping into your thoughts every night
What would be nice is an advanced scout
Don't think I'll write anymore of this stuff
This is scaring me half to death
Now there I've used that word death again
Still kicking till my very last breath
The end of the tunnel's in view, oh my
The end of the tunnel's in view
There's no turning back it's much too late
Hope I'm not at the front of the queue!
My friends were discussing the cyptids of their home states.
I kept insanely quiet, for my own experience left me shaken.
You are mighty quiet agreed my friends, both of them Kates.
I hesitated to share my story, of when I was almost taken.
I was eight at the time, so it has been fifty-nine years.
This in no way dispels my qualms or my fears.
It was an August Iowa night, with moon on the corn.
When a man-shaped bat like creature appeared, all forlorn.
I was instantly paralyzed with fright, seeing his abnormal light.
It came out of his head, and it lit up the cornfield that night.
If that light alone had been all there was to the Monster of Van Meter,
I would have been more likely to have forgotten this masticating eater.
He was gnawing a small animal, there was blood in his teeth.
A noise came from behind him, it sounded like Satan beneath.
The end of the world, I felt, pretty certain.
For my family it might mean the end of this world's curtain.
The creature made eye contact with me, this man-shaped ugly bat.
I was so frightened, I could not move in the least, so I sat.
The searchlight that was coming out of his head
Pretty much insured me I would soon be quite dead.
The Kates were waiting, but I chickened out and did not tell.
I am still scared of this cyptid, sure he was from the bowels of hell.
Socialites
those was good days.
sneakin' out the bedroom window
tryin' harder not to wrinkle our frocks
than not to wake momma
runnin' down the dusty road
with pointy-toe pumps in tote
hopin' we didn't miss too much
of the party.
greeted at the end of the road
by three cats
in they daddy's shiny black Bonneville
waitin' to give us a ride.
they'd be justa skinnin' and grinnin'
thinkin' they might just get some ass
before the night was through.
some nights,
if them cats was slick enough,
they would.
we'd Slide all night at the juke joint.
eatin' pickled pigfeet and
gettin' high off of stump-hole liquor.
tellin' lies 'bout how
we was gonna go to New York one day
and how we was gonna go to Coney Island
for hotdogs at Nathan's.
and then go over to Queens
to find us a soul food joint
for a taste of collards and cornbread.
from there,
we would just follow the crowd to Harlem
and take us a place in line
waitin' our turn to
bow at the feet of Apollo,
god of the Chitlin Circuit.
soon,
he would entertain us with
his dukes and his queens, and his godfathers
and, boy!
that palace would be smokin'!
'course
all eyes would be on us-
the socialites from the sticks-
all dolled up in our fitted skirts
with can-can slips underneath
and the cats in they pencil suits and wing-tips
and all us thinkin'
if only the niggas back home could see us now-
snappin' and tappin' in Harlem
with dukes, and queens, and godfathers.
Please forgive the things I do
I'm just looking out for you
To do good I have to lie
Giving it just one more try
Going for a ride today
I'm sneaking you to AA
Where I hope they can fix you
If not I'm gonna see it through
And admit you to a bed
An in house program that has led
To a miracle recovery
From a battle won by me
I see you going down a path
Leading to an aftermath
Its so hard to come back from
I used to be just as dumb
Thinking a drink or even two
Wont be addiction for you
Then it leads to something harder
Pushing you farther and farther
To the brink of no return
Till a hard lesson you will learn
Then you will have to face
What your past can not erase
Burning memories in your ind
Of a sad and tragic time
Listen to my story friend
This doesn't have to be the end
Help is always there if you
Hold out your hand--I'll see you through
Raised to believe many things
One which a guy from up high
Comes flying out that sky that we all see
It had to be literally
Did i believe it?
Without a doubt i did,
Because the one who trained me
told me nothing was hid
I grew and trained and meditated on this as a kid
Was lead to believe this era was far from kingdom come
How far from the truth was this.
Now it beats on me like a drum
The day i became self aware i was delivered from the dragons liar
Enraged he was that i began growing out my hair
Becoming his end, a vicious truth with a cold stare
Freshly crafted nunchucks marked by sevens
3 days later
I can only tell you an angel put it there
Truth is ....it is true
but my trainer missed the vitual tools
Parables connect us from what we do
Poetry and emotion are not apart
And we are not damn robots
I chose it just as it chose me
But....it answered my question to an extreme
I was the only one in this existence
that can deem myself eternally
My other self sealed this deal
By blood sweat and tears did he feel
Seems tho that hasnt changed as the end is near
But maybe this time...
I feel i need someone else to help me see
I dont know why but its what has always driven me
To put an end to your enemy is to see as they see
And at the end....choose whats truly honorably
And so to my blood family
I become ronin
Because i am me
To Rise, conquer,
and in truth ...find honor
Until the end of my journey sets me free
In desolate wasteland of deprivation,
sauntering languidly with my indigent life,
I tried tolerantly for so long
to smoothen the angularities
of our beleaguered bond.
Swirling in the egregious whirlpool
of searing indignation,
sucked into the chasm
of despondent desertion,
I searched in vain
for the pathway to your heart.
The feeling of dismal denial
made me abandon the pursuit.
But had I cultivated
the art of endurance
and stayed on resolute,
I’d have seen the butterfly
of yearning return reticent,
flitter in the air of changed time
on its wings of dream
in my sensuous sky
with the lattice of your charisma.
With the whispering wind
it’d have created the music,
harmonized with the rhythm of my heart,
where longing would have danced
with the ripples of rhapsody,
roll between you and me,
entwine us forever.
Purifying the renascent craving called love,
I’d have weaved the novel design of desire
in the tapestry of heavenly togetherness,
that wouldn’t have frayed
till the end of time.
Bookends prop to order and bring to attention a rampant,
bedraggled rabble of books, to parade upright and aligned.
Big and fat, tall and thin,
ditty, witty, flitty and ponderous tomes all squashed in, buttressed.
Books do well without bookends
But bookends topple over without books to hold.
A parasitic dependency like ticks, lice and bookworms.
Bookends lie, at both the beginnings and ends of books all lined up in a row.
Bookends like hands, love to hold books. They simply adore them.
But unlike hands, which drop books to applaud and clap a good read or scratch,
Bookends just pine, sigh, whimper with no books to embrace and hold.
Like spoilt kids they chuck temper tantrum fits, get hissy, fall over and wobble.
So remember to keep your bookends happy with good reads to bed.
Remember they need books to survive and prosper.
But beware, bookends like to skip the plot
By shuffling the deck of 'The End' and 'In the Beginning' of random books.
Thinking is a thing of the past
they see no profit in that
looking on is easier for them
and they'll follow the herd at the drop of a hat
committees are but cash cows for the incompetent
with nothing accomplished at the end of the day
by back-slapping glad-handing
or under the table their cards they play
talking is of days gone by
they view no profit there
watching is the thing to do
and they'll gaze on anywhere
I thought they didn't have the courage
of their convictions big or small
but I was wrong as now I've found
they have none at all
meanwhile
we're out here in the human jungle
bumbling about stumbling around
going in circles jumping up falling down
and life is good or so I'm told
but I don't buy what I'm sold
At the doorstep, someone is beckoning me.
Am being pulled into a deep void
pitch dark with an eerie aura
plagued by darkness I stumble forward.
oh where are you my friend time?
your absence drives me mad.
the mere thought of life seems like an elixir.
Am parched like a barren desert,
running running running without any direction
overflowing with tears amidst the barren desert.
I wail as ghouls goad me
my whole body numb.
I crouch and quiver in
in thoughts of my evil memories.
suddenly I feel the sun glaring on my face
to wake up in the hands of my neighbor
I hug him like its the end of the world
joy I never knew gushed out
in leaps and bounds.
Ah silly me electrocuted by the doorbell,
yet happy to cheat death
for even a single day on earth.