Long Thoroughfares Poems
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—The Last Tear Before Stone—
I retraversed the vale
Where anamnesis itself
Had forsworn my appellation.
The natal habitation remained unsealed,
Its taciturn chambers
Consecrating a silence
More primordial than bereavement.
Beyond the effaced thoroughfares,
A river had relinquished
Its fluency beneath immemorial stone.
One solitary scintilla endured—
The ultimal lachryma
Ere transience capitulated
Unto perdurance.
I reached.
And the self
I had sedimented
From laurels,
Certitudes,
And adamantine appellations,
Underwent its noiseless kenosis.
No empyrean responded.
The mountains perdured.
The telluric deep remained inexhausted.
Only possession,
Long enthroned within my grasp,
Abdicated.
Then,
Within that immaculate relinquishment,
An unbegotten Presence—
Without visage,
Without locution,
Without nominable essence—
Surpassed
Both nativity
And sepulture.
I departed
Bearing neither hierophany
Nor testament.
The river
Had never supplicated.
The stone
Had never required grace.
Let citadels
Be ingested
By Chronos.
Let sceptres
Revert to particulate oblivion.
Let every utterance
Be reabsorbed
Into the anteverbal silence.
Let every pilgrimage
Recede
Unto its telluric origin.
For ere the first river
Apprehended
The solar incumbency of flow,
The lachryma
Was already lithic.
And ere creation
Remembered water,
Lithos
Already
Was.
Crossroads
Five corners
Converge in
Crossroads of
What if maybe
Turning points - to ride on indecision’s wings
CobbLed stone paths, smooth byways beckon
Dusty avenues vIewed - indolent parking lots
Thoroughfares Flow in turnpikes hasty choicE
Compromises
Adjudications
Reconciliation
Or fabrication
Either Or calls
To ambivalent
Consummation
Of white fires
9-21-21
Contest: Crossroads
Sponsor: Kim Rodrigues
I know the aching heart
Knows that longings
Can never be fully apart
And satisfied anymore
Through bodily meetings.
I know I can never share
Stories of childhood tears
And fears bravely conquered there
Through silence and struggles
To step into hazy future thoroughfares.
Land and ocean be your friends
For nights and days sometimes
With destitute, but never losing ends
To preserve dignity and attitude
Of kindhearted simple primes.
Now, I truly know that longings
Will find their own ways to you
Telling me that true yearnings
Are always beautiful in sweet memories
Separation can never separate me from you.
(26-02-2022, a day after you go)
Way up there in the Colorado mountains at around 9000 feet,
There once was a thrivin' village that served as the county seat.
It was a boom and bust town that now lies in desolate shambles,
Its one-time stately buildin's now overgrown with creepin' brambles.
'Tis said that a vein of gold was discovered when a feller dug deep,
To bury a friend who was gored to death by an irate mountain sheep!
His discovery was known as Dead Man's claim and the rush was on,
And to the place hordes of miners, gamblers and rabble was drawn.
There were three or four rowdy saloons on each and every block,
Servin' booze and featurin' high-kickin' women around the clock.
A Methodist church and a school brought a tad of culture to the place.
Folks of finer tastes thought 'soiled doves' paradin' about a disgrace!
An untended graveyard gives witness to the wickedness of the town,
As headstone etchin's reveal the doom of many who were gunned down!
Yet is heard the phantom sounds from saloons from rabble goin' bananers,
Fightin', gamblin' and dancin' to the tinklin' of out-of-tune peeaners!
Northerly winds prod tumble weeds up and down dusty thoroughfares,
Streets once teemin' with humanity goin' about their nefarious affairs.
Now is only heard the ghostly creakin' of rusty hinges on saggin' doors,
When frigid winter winds bear down upon those dreary windswept moors!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
Is that all there is to this rush of vibrating energy cascading through our synaptic
thoroughfares? Light spectrum wide and narrow traversing your point of view and you
think and therefore I am what your senses interpret me to be? I think not.
We are individuals to the shallow observer only, but to the true explorer – the one who is fearless of turning away from the mirrors and radio signals – we are infinite universes of galaxies and worlds expanding and contracting much like the particles of the (generally accepted but widely disputed) Bang that created the linear motion by which mortality and immortality constantly swap their roles and responsibilities.
Upon this discovery, the true explorer turns back to the lenses and frequencies to
see the living breathing thriving organism (beyond the solar systems and constellations) longing to be interpreted.
Nature's love ways are sometimes cruel but fair;
Balanced charters set with no inspection;
A lover's passage laid for those who dare;
Full hearts so often blind to reflection.
Seek not a path set straight as science rule;
Or luscious greenery bathed in brilliance;
Fake thoroughfares may deviate to fool;
And there be Jesters with their dalliance.
Should choices prove this match to be quite true;
Bounties offered up for tough courses stayed;
That cherished patch takes on a purple hue;
And ushers in a time for accolades.
With each desirous step nirvana nears;
And obstacles once troubling set to side;
So knowing this and setting by all fears;
Will you match me then my darling stride for stride.
Robin of the Hoodie
Alas, resides in Sherwood Forest,
one Robin of the Hoodie. He’s lost
amid the greenery, weeping
as sunset nears for underneath
the Hood he hides his deep
and lonely fears. The Hoodie
no protection here amid the
bug filled darkness, nor can
it quell the eerie sounds of
hoodless creature calls,
his secret handshake useless
among the clawed and taloned.
He drifts to sleep with visions
of “Air Jordans” that can fly,
carry him to safety, the
streetlit yellow streaks
of alleyways and thoroughfares
the Hoodie creatures know.
Summoning his courage
he storms the distant hut
enters into murky stink,
old wooden planks,
and curses those who left him
on his own, abandoned him
to Hoodie misery.
Fools who took
a city kid out camping,
fed him beans and franks
and stories until
“HE HAD TO GO”.
2/16/2016
submitted to – A twisted poem about Robin Hood – Poetry Contest
sponsor – C. T.
Fireflies dance through black space
twinkling in the shadows of moonlight
reminding hearts why the star's glow
flickering kindly with a silent hope
wistfully tracing the silhouettes along
breathing in whispers of heavy darkness
milking the night for its silence pouring
across mountains in showers of pelting
plethora as it creates a sanctuary for
endless pulses of blood curdling screams
awakening murky milky way boulevards
into thoroughfares of heady grace
~~~
Fireflies dance through black space
To the music of melancholy praises
Sung on the hearts of night owls
Who fling caution to the winds howling
Across ridges and hills with laughter
Sounding furious on the gloomy horizon
~~~
Fireflies dance through black space
Somber voices of nocturnal prayers
Word Play Poems with Play-on-Words raison d'etre -- Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: John Anderson
July 9, 2021
Information superhighway bumper to binary bumper.
Stark contrast versus deserted macadam thoroughfares.
Magnification rendered visualization coronavirus
alias covid 19 courtesy electron microscopy plus
sundry computer technology yours truly (popeye
Olive Garden variety generic layman) breathtakingly
held spellbound, née utterly transfixed vibrant
spectacular design regarding inexplicable dynamic
forces wrought creation (albeit - alluringly beautifully
charming, deceptively eminently fascinating, and
globularly highly intriguing biochemical cellular
denizens - indubitably jackknifing kindred livingsocial
man/womankind now outstripping Buffy the vampire
(weakened immunity system of the down) slayer
kickstarting pandemic induces *****sapiens to
experience extravagant fancy feast humble pie
(just desserts) necessitate quarantine to minimize
transmission, whereby (Gogol Ling) dead souls
agonizingly writhe within purgatory tests mine
Unitarian/nonestablishmentarian credo, never with
me wildest imagination intimating detrimental fatal
impact avast swath terra firmae, aye attest dominant
primate species, not necessarily lost cause, nor
civilization and discontents forsaken, but buzz
feeding foretaste (think while leg propped atop desk -
armageddon), of end times nonetheless triggering
linkedin helter skelter, wrenching economy (globally
webbed) doleful Lake Woebegone citizens haphazardly
remaining approximately six feet between another
human beings scrabbling, scrambling, scrimping, saving
international decree obligating painstaking handwashing
absolute zero socialization (comprising no more than ten
people), said groupon crowdsource commingling verboten,
yes tis moost ideal for solitary fellow (me barely a Yogi)
yabba dabbling playing online solitaire, chess, listening
to deep sleep music, meditating, reading, and/or writing.
Somewhere in these busy woods
a woodpecker tattoos tree bark,
I hear its piercing peck and drumming.
Above me songbirds and squirrels
hustle to and fro
through their arboreal thoroughfares.
Then I, in my absent mindedness,
meandered into this open glade;
here silence climbs up a rope-less tent
one pitched under a million feet of sky.
I could spend an hour here,
a week, for I am sheltered;
not only from woodland chatter and fuss
but also times hurried pulse.
This sunlit acre could be moonlit
perhaps somewhere it already is?
'Somewhere' has moved on
upon a pathway I cannot see from here.
This sylvan space, this patch of peace
is a tower of stillness,
a sunny circle of buttercups and stray bluebells,
and what I thought of as somewhere
bewitches me in a dappled roundness
of nowhere.