Long Thorns Poems
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Life is a choice that each of us makes.
We can choose what we wish to be.
At first parents guide us along an old road,
Then it forks and at last we are free,
To make our own choices and be our own man,
The decision at last is our own.
As long as we hurt no one but ourselves,
We can do as we like 'cause we're grown;
But soon we will learn to our shock and dismay,
That each choice we make has a price.
Whate'er you dish out to your brothers, my friend,
Comes right back to you times thrice.
In nature God shows us all how to get by.
Those who work and store up have it best.
Those who can't be bothered to work and to save,
Will starve come the hard Winter's test;
For life is a journey of good times and bad.
There's much to be learned 'long the road.
Each man is blessed according to plan,
And we each must carry our load.
We learn to be patient, we learn to be kind,
We learn to accept God's will.
We learn to discern which fork in the road,
Leads to life and which fork will kill;
And finally we learn the one fact of life,
Most important if we are to live.
All of life's riches will all slip away,
Like sand through the holes in a sieve.
All thaat remains is what we leave behind,
Who remembers and what they will think.
Will our mem'ry be sweet to family and friends,
Or will they turn away 'cause it stinks.
Judy Ball
The Bible tells us:
You reap what ever you sow.
So if you sow thorns and thistles don't expect to get cherries.
what piece of Peace shall i come in
when you look through the peephole,
does a pitchfork illuminate your adjectives of me
to make ammends, i attempt to prepare reconstruction soup
dismal is your evenly distorted reaction,
and it spreads like a plague colorfully seducing
what piece of Peace shall i come in
when you tiptoe through your
personal daydream curiosity excursion,
do the thorns medicate the adjourning of your wrongful judgement
to reignite the luminosity of the art, i try to mediate the enlargement
of the minimal medium....hoping to plant New Seeds of Effervescent
Memorial Happenings....
what piece of Peace shall i come in
when you frolic in your newly zigzagging
temperamental era, will the soft surroundings
in the wayward wind unite to provide the now unbeknownst
warmth of reality formerly monikered "WHAT ONCE WAS"
for the mere purpose of simply existing, once again i give the foundations'
lost a quarter of a whole to again begin hourly repolished works.....
to once again wish away on.....
Written: February 12, 2025 for Ink Empress Poetry Contest
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In the tumultuous twilight of
my wimpy seascape
I twist in torment
wandering through
wondrous woods,
awash with vibrant vistas and fragrant foliage.
My katabatic soul yearns for a soothing balm,
as the earth reverberates with abyssal emotions.
Beneath the intricate embroidery of my substratum,
bleeding bold hues into celestial heights,
wrestling with the wondrous warmth
of love within this sanctuary.
I mourn the delicate flesh
that once pulsed within me,
paying heartfelt tribute
to the soul that has departed.
Coexisting collectively for five decades
snowflakes silently settle, while the serene sea,
cradles a speechless seagull
and solitary seashells.
Radiant roses intertwine with rugged thorns,
alongside sandy shores and shimmering seas—each
glance at majestic palms
revealing beauty in its complexity.
My soul swirls in a simmering
cauldron of desires,
colliding with constellations and
luminous orbs as dusk settles.
I cradle the cardinal grief as
a potent elixir, meticulously
concocted by the cosmos.
Through thick fogs and dusky dimness,
I shape my treasured dreams
into the breathing bounds,
aspiring to mend the mighty
fissures in life's lofty ledges
with clarity and compassion.
The wretched waves wail.
In a sea of weeping roses,
I drift like a whisper carried by the wind,
extravagant in harmony with hazy waves
where storms of panic are in the bosom of hollow shade
I yearn to be North Star on the horizon
that shuns showing the ostentatious apex of lucent love
Will the twists of time still tether our tenderness?
My spirit is similar to a blossom bound in the biting breeze.
Seeks shelter in the celestial shadows as it soars.
A flower facing sun am I.
I show to all a sunny face,
for light I love and that is why
I face the sun to feel its grace.
While lilting in the summer breeze,
a flower facing sun am I.
I have no thorns, but wish to please
by dancing underneath blue sky.
I smile at every passerby,
and wish no harm for anyone.
A flower facing sun am I,
who brightly stands till day is done.
No woe to others do I bring.
A sunflower until I die,
I hope to make your spirit sing.
A flower facing sun am I.
July 8, 2020
For Brian Strand's 'COMPLETELY YOUR CHOICE(19) any theme any form' Poetry Contest
the sky was torn, the heavens burned
as fate, at last, her vengeance turned
the mighty horns, the serpent’s tongue
were drowned beneath the battle’s drum
with blade of light and steel so bright
they struck her down—an end in sight
but shadows writhe where witches fall
and curses live beyond the call
her laughter cracked like breaking bone
a shriek, a wail—a dying throne
yet in her ash, the briars grew
their roots ran deep, their thorns still knew
the castle sleeps, the curse is gone
but in the wind, her voice plays on
for wicked things do not stay dead
they haunt, they wait, they fill with dread
so heed the dark, beware the thorn
where roses bloom, a queen is born
Pushing past fear
Pushing past obligatory oblivion
Pushing past this pain's sphere
Trying to feel things never felt before
Never know or seen in darkness desires
Trying to be all I can be
Pushing past the burn
Pushing past the sweat
Pushing past the point of no return
Looking into the abyss
Feeling it look into me
Looking over the rainbow it ends indeed
Pushing the thorns of thought
Pushing the crimson petals into lashes
Pushing the stitches of delicate twine
Seeing the finite infinite fractals
Knowing the coming desolation
Seeing the son go supernova right over your shoulder
Pushing past the last daisy
Pushing past the filagree
Pushing past the crazy
Reprisal or regret - both are meant to punish
Reprisal slaps the hand; regret lingers in the heart
Competitors of the fiercest kind,
Like weeds sown in among the wheat,
both sprout in the same field,
but only one of them wins out.
Reprisals are sharp thorns from stabbing tongues
causing deep wounds that may never heal.
Regrets are sown in the seams of a guilty mind
Where no salve can reach, and scars remain.
Regret, why do you thirst so hard after me?
Be gone to slake your enmity elsewhere
on some other unsuspecting prey.
You've tempted me to give in many times,
but not yet have I succumbed to your wiles.
I've paid the price reprisal asked,
I will continue to let his words condemn me.
But I shall live without one iota of regret
You'll hear no "What ifs" in my plaintive voice.
Feast upon carrion until you've had your fill.
My back is turned to your endless malevolence
You won't be singing songs of remorse for me.
Mum sat in her aromatic garden,
admiring its charm and grace.
It was a cold morning,
but mum never seemed to feel it any more.
Her eyes were tired, life's adversities had taken their toll,
yet the smallest things filled them with joy.
Like the perennial ivory lilies blossoming
among her loyal, royal forget-me-nots.
The tranquil scents of lilac lavender,
blooming among radiant Jerusalem sage,
always made her smile.
Her hands were wrinkly, but resilient,
despite years of hard work as a single mother.
Still strong enough to tend to her grandiose display
of ruby red, aureolin yellow and puce pink roses.
Mum always told me the thorns were like knights -
there to protect the rose's fragility.
That a woman is a man's most precious flower,
requiring tender care and appreciation.
Evergreen conifers parade along the perimeter of
my lovely mother's garden, like a colony of soldiers,
protecting a beautiful, yet delicate,
Japanese cherry blossom tree.
Mum always told me it reminded her about life,
how everything was temporary, just like its fragile buds,
that only blossomed in the spring and
how the lightest breeze blew them away.
Mum taught me so much and was my inspiration,
picked me up when I was defeated,
taught me that only in defeat do we learn.
When the world tried to change me,
taught me to accept myself,
to love myself before I could love others
and be true to who I am.
As I sat with mum admiring the beauty of the seeds sown,
melancholic tones flooded my emotions,
wondering how I would cope without her.
Was I selfish wishing to die before her,
so I would not have to mourn for her,
but it would be so heartbreaking
for her to mourn for me.
My contemplation was interrupted by an outbreak of rain.
Mother simply smiled and said:
"Rain is mercy from God, my son."
Written 26 February 2016
The Crucifixion Of the Christ
Lo and behold, on this rood
On it once lay a great sacrifice
Of God’s only Beloved son
With his blood spilt on the wood
He washed away every vice
The cuffs of all our sins undone
A prince of peace rode on a borrowed colt to conquer sin's spikes of pain
A redeemer set aside his reverence and bled to erase the mark of Cain
A King ceded glory and a gold throne for mockery of a crown of thorns
In the moment of pain he saved a criminal and gifted a mother to John
The temple split like the red sea, swallowing wickedness into an abysm
God blinked, the sun dimmed, dark covered earth for the cross to beam
In the shade of a this rood-tree
We’re solaced and we’re free
Our eyes are wide open to see
The crucifix as a Mercy Seat
His anguish was fated by death
A death was fated by a rebirth
Reborn to harvest blessings
From the seed of his suffering
For one to deny thyself for us
Is a love no man can surpass
We’re unfit to lace his shoes
But he washes all of our feet
How much of us can we lose
If salvation has a face of defeat
What is worthy of this price?
One life or to be born twice?
Putting a lid on earthly vanities
Opens a door to godly verities
Death is a numb symbolization
Resurrection a vivid realisation
The only price lies in ourselves
A soul blossoms from sin’s shells
A revelation of an inner presence
An exhumation with aliveness
A demise overcome by our trust
To relive the passion of Christ
Morning arrives wearing fog
like a warning it never removes.
The village wakes slowly,
as if afraid to be seen.
Roofs drip secrets.
Windows blink once, then look away.
Names here are spoken softly,
so they don’t attract teeth.
The mist is not empty
it watches.
It remembers everyone
who tried to leave.
Footsteps disappear
almost as soon as they’re made,
as if the road itself
is tired of hope.
A bell tolls somewhere unseen,
counting lives instead of hours.
Even prayer echoes back altered,
older, hungrier.
Yet roses still bloom
dark, stubborn,
their thorns fluent in survival.
Children learn early
how to smile without trust,
how to run without direction,
how to listen for wings.
At night, the fog thickens,
stitched with moonlight and dread.
The castle looms, patient,
a thought that refuses to die.
But still
a candle is lit.
A door is barred.
A story is whispered.
In Barovia,
hope does not shine.
It smolders
quiet, defiant,
waiting for the mist
to blink first.