Long Thoughtlessness Poems
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Life on the edge would certainly become a novel,
if I included all the chapters of my life’s journey
from that of an old soul, from pure consciousness
to egg and sperm colliding, to embryo, to fetus,
to that of a baby, a child, youth, a teenager,
a young adult, a middle aged man, this old man
who has walked the walk of the living and the dead
with ghostly shadows floating in night time forests
blanketed by sheets of blackness, permeated with flakes,
specks of light from distant planets, long lost stars,
forgotten lives, as the reflective moon, on high,
tries to shed light upon the nightly shadows,
brighten the edges of all the black clouds
that fill all the empty spaces above the tree tops.
Life on the edge – I have been tripping – have gotten up,
have fallen from grace, yet stands up to face adversity,
have been trapped, yet set myself free, been lost
yet have found my way back to myself.
Life on the edge – time reveals all, all the efforts,
all the accomplishments, all the failures, the defeats,
and all the losses become weightless in the light,
of an old man who sits alone, on his own locked up
in the cage of his own design, his own making
as nightmares continue to haunt - to the end of his journey.
Life on the edge – has been sharp, dull, keen without tears,
in spite of all that life, fate, karma, choice have lain upon
the experiences this old soul has suffered, endured, enjoyed
and yet the dreams of this child – before and after he became –
still linger on in the fading embers of his life’s journey
even if they are but ashes blown by cold cruel winds
putting out the raging fires that once lit up the skies
and wormed the heaven and the hearts of a few mortal women.
Life on the edge – of this plane, this dimension, this universe –
can it really be as we see it ?, is it karma ?, is it fate ?, is it design ?
Does history repeat itself ?, does it come back to haunt us ?,
in another time, in another place, in a different space.
Life on the edge – next time around – will be a prayer
to never, ever have to live on the edge again,
to know no more emotional pain, no poverty of heart, soul,
the stupidity and thoughtlessness of those in control,
those in the know, of the nature of this old man
who has shown – specks, flakes of light, light that has
burned so bright, has flickered, has long since taken flight.
B. J. “A” 2
March 10th 2004
I long to see you become forever well
filled with life and happiness that from which we fell
I love you for the character things in you I see
the unpolished gems you contain your inner quality
I see your desire and searching to be loved
your tenderness to the prison there what you dream of
I've considered the places where your mind does dwell
the heights you have aspired but far from them fell
I see into your inner core not just upon your face
the mind residing in you that your soul encase
I love that you know you can count me a friend
and your confidences I'll keep until our end
I know those places where the hurting went
with childhood abuses were treated with contempt
I know how criticism did with anguish fill
and how the remains are in there living still
I have seen you alone crying in the night
with no one there to say it will be alright
you put on a brave front as we all display
but despair rides your soul each and every day
And there did I see beauty that lives you within
the part you have protected from violence of men
from the words and deeds from their actions cruel
dispensed by those ignorant the unthinking fool
But I am only human can only see a little part
the results of mankind's thoughtlessness effects upon your heart
so little comfort can I impart that effectively touches you
until the Son of God his love on earth will do
Just know you will always be within my thought
though not there present you're in my mind allot
I'll look forward till next I see you and look upon your face
wrap my arms around you hold you in my embrace
Know that your sorrow Gods intends desist
through the only Kingdom these governments resist
those who hurt others will become restrained
until the hearts of men can become retrained
These are the promises that through Christ will come
that which resides in heaven his will on earth be done
and not another soul will ever hurt your heart
for Gods promise is that Love will never you depart
COPYRIGHT © 2011 C Michael Miller
via Duboff Law Group LLC
Firstly, skies grew dark, whilst the winds grew strong,
this ominous progression, showed it would not be long
before towering clouds released their thunderous load
of torrential rain, on the land below. Though rain bode
well for much needed relief, they held great danger too,
for a lengthy deluge lasting hours, which might ensue,
could flood the low lying regions, when the dry soil,
baked hard from weeks of drought, would likely foil
the penetration of water to the parched depths below,
where roots wither unseen. Essential for plants to grow,
they’d wait in vain for relief, when heavy cool rains
racing pell mell to the lower reaches of flood plains:
sweep all before their gathered cascading might!
Although rain is needed, it is never a welcome sight
to see it fall heavily, then race away in unseemly haste.
Though desperately essential, it is a diabolical waste,
and further devastates the already stressed, parched land!
Of late Mother Nature shows she wants us to understand
global warming effects are a result of man’s thoughtlessness,
and this is why we see extremes of weather related distress,
manifested all around the globe, as severe rampaging storms,
replace once benign weather systems, accepted as norms.
Lately however, we’ve been fortunate inasmuch as the rain
from damaging storms has passed us by, and we gain
satisfaction, whilst our garden, over which we’ve slaved,
will reach its full potential, with our distressed plants saved,
from the effects of several windy days and oppressive heat.
From life giving rain, which fell:, our day is complete:
with our brown landscape becoming refreshed and green;
changed from the recent dull, ochre brown that has been
our lot. Due to changes in our weather patterns of late,
the welcome rain coming as it did, has changed the state
of our land in a way that is seen by many as a miracle.
Although this transformation is natural, for this spectacle
we give thanks, hoping nature forgives our ignorance
if we contain our natural greedy ways and exuberance.
Should we show firm resolve, to change our ways,
then she in turn may ensure we enjoy our future days.
Rhymer. Aug 5th, 2016.
Saturday is native to weddings and ceremonies
Of anxieties – patterned in coarse sputum of rain.
My friend Bonsy and his wife filled the calendar
With the uselessness of time, levelled against waste
As indicated by the clocks of dew-coated pavements
Of our yawning city.
Next to this was the arrangement of formalities which
Came with the attainment of stress. They haggled
Between themselves, the celebrants. Oh well, they haggled
For the benefits of the church from which the organ must
Sound, to welcome them – aisle-bound – among a congregation
That suits itself with the accoutrements of churchdom.
And the wedding proceeded amid the glare of the gentle
Sun, into whose ears the dulcet voice of the red organ
Poured. A postman once said to me, ‘If all posts bore
Wedding invitations, who would attend and who wouldn’t? ’
To which I turned my arms up, helplessly indicating my
Thoughtlessness to such questions.
And the church bell pealed.
It grew with the muscle of Doppler Effect when frayed nerves
Become inured to boiling cold like the one we all were witnesses
To, that blustery, unendowed Saturday, when Bonsy married June.
And the minister pronounced every word of conjugation with
Care, peering into the eyes of the couple and the rest of us sinners
Who listened with the attentiveness of cats on matters relating the
Rape of pious mice.
The organ rose and fell in one voice swoop, massaging the pride
In one sinner after another on this ceremony of whimsical gales,
Now sweeping the face of the town; this union of bone and flesh
Draped in dark suits and flowing matter of whiteness, white and
Whitish whiteness of white.
‘I DO’.
The church winked.
‘I DO’.
The holy house hummed.
The organ belched.
Outside, Saturday wore on like before... oh, no, not like before,
When it would have lain prostrate to its own fouled weather of
Extreme bride bliss and dancing confetti.
My friend’s wedding went on on the blustery breath of July rain.
Dark and fussy, the clouds, jealous of July, frowned their faces.
Rain spat gently. No thunder spoke.
Lightning came only through the lone eyes of cameras.
When he blew into my life,
I was a flower, just starting to bloom.
With high velocity,
he tried to uproot me from solid ground.
I gave him my heart
but all the while - I was thirsting, thirsting. . .
for even half the consideration
I displayed for him
to be returned somehow to me.
But it seems my whirlwind romance
was all inside my pretty little head,
for it certainly was not the reality of what we really had.
Yet, OH! How very real it was to me.
Poetry flowed through me,
and I learned this was my way
of nourishing my soul, allowing me to cope.
With the outpouring of my emotions into poetry
I could put my disappointments onto paper,
release my anguish into something more concrete!
Words became my anchor; for in the words of my poems
I ultimately found my clarity.
Through the outpouring of my soul,
I would sometimes excuse his thoughtlessness.
The desire was in his eyes, but his actions belied it.
I would ask myself how he could not return to me
that same-felt love he had to be seeing in my eyes.
And for a time,
I took from him
any ray of sun that he chanced to shine on me
with his smile.
That is. . .until the day I saw him
with his wife.
Later, I pressed him and he confessed it all.
How yes, he had a wife. He’d simply never told me.
All those times he passed near me
like a warm breeze wafting into my day,
all those times he flirted so outrageously
yet not wanting to take me out into the open.
It all made perfect sense now.
I wilted
and yet,
I was thankful I had never let
him pluck me up,
as romantic as it might have been.
I learned in time
that his half a heart was,
in fact, a half
of nothing.
Written 1/11/2016
For the "Any Poem Not For A Contest, Ever" Poetry Contest of Broken Wings
I decided to drive through the city today
Instead of the freeway. And,
I still remember when we first met.
It was like receiving my little red bike under the tree
so long ago. The excitement of something so new,
so shiny. I was just so impatient to take you out
and tour your beautiful boulevards, striving to
explore every block of you—one by one.
You were a skyscraper that reached so high
that you ripped the very fabric of my sky
and spilled fortunate stars like
glitter on my existence.
The rain never came. And, I felt it never could.
I would just hold you like a crane—breathless.
All those delirious nights that lasted ‘til dawn.
And the laughter, think back how we laughed,
out loud, that it would echo through the alleys
and above to places the pavement couldn’t reach.
My mouth got wet with just a whisper
of your name on my breath. And I gorged,
oh how I gorged at the restaurants of
your soul until there was no room left and
I was ripe and plump for the picking.
All the boroughs of you,
I thought, would never stop growing.
Now, the constant sun (that used to be there)
can barely break the fog from your buildings and
beyond. When did your sky turn into a sponge of
liquid silt that I squeezed and squished
over my head—constantly? It feels like I never
have an umbrella anymore. The roads got
rougher and the cracks grew into fissures
in need of desperate repair. Some,
beyond repair. Where did it all go?
Time can be so careless and relentless.
You have been torn down and rebuilt
in my mind, many, many times
to unrecognizable sizes.
It all just got confusing and crowded, right?
We saw all the signs and signals
steering us in the wrong direction.
But, we journeyed on,
slowly—never surely.
The whole thing, everything, now,
just looks like the homeless from the
thoughtlessness and neglect of it all.
It was just red light after red light.
I saw our favorite restaurant,
still standing on our favorite corner.
And at that moment, I remembered, how much
I still love you.
There are some,
from birth are marked by melancholy,
The silent shades of sorrow,
are their congenial haunts.
The glades of grief are the only places,
their leaf can flourish.
Others, who through some crushing misfortune,
Being brought so low,
never holding up their heads again,
but go, mourning all the way to their silent graves.
Some, again,
disappointed in their early youth,
Either in some fond object of their affections,
or else in some project of their young ambitions.
Never can dare to face the world,
Shrinking from contact with their fellows,
Curling up their tendrils like the sensitive plant.
In all flocks,
there must be lambs,
The weak and wounded sheep.
Even among the flock of God, the Elect
It is the duty, of those of us,
who are freer than others,
Who found liberation from despondency of spirit.
Be very tender to the weak ones.
Far be it,
from the man of courageous disposition,
Being hard on those.
timid and despairing!
If we have a lion-like spirit,
let's not imitate the king of beasts,
Expressing cruelty,
on those timid fallow deer that fly before them.
Let us place our strength at their service,
Reaching out to help in protection of them. .
With downy fingers,
bind up the wounded heart,
On our hands,
gloves and bandage,
Being there nourishing their fainting spirits!
In this walk of life,
let the unwounded warriors bear their injured comrades to the rear.
bathe their wounds,
cover them from the storm of war.
Being gentle to those who are desponding!
Some deal with others,
roughly handed thoughtlessness,
"Ah," they say,
"if such a one is so foolish as to be sensitive, let him be."
Being sensitive,
timid and desponding is ill enough in itself,
without us being hard,
and cruel towards those who are so afflicted!
Go forth and do to others,
As you would that others should,
in your hours of despondency,
deal with you tenderly and comfortably,
so, deal tenderly and comfortably with them.
Lambs, wounded sheep,
Christ died for each one of them.
Recovering From Life
Life, when full of sadness, can break a person’s spirit.
It happens all too often; you can see it in their eyes.
Children bullied around, whipped; why, they know not.
Women, beaten, ridiculed, and abused by husbands/lovers.
Men disrespected, disregarded, and left out.
Perhaps never fully recovered, they choose a solitary life.
Love passes by while hope slips through the cracks.
Who experiences such pains?
Depressed, by the ramblings of the mind…remembering.
Regressed into defeat, licking the wounds life has thrown.
Dreaming away each day in fantasy…avoiding aches.
Until reality, a distant plea calling to the heart is unheard.
And there one stands, the mind whirling, with no answers.
Perhaps never fully recovered, they choose a solitary life.
Love passes by while hope slips through the cracks.
Does the world give such pains?
Some people live with their angry hate bestowed.
Thriving in the get things and get it now world.
Others, roam through the days with grave responsibilities.
And when overwhelmed, lives void of help or praise,
Escape, living withdrawn in a superficial world—
…Fake smiles.
Peace is not only found in a solitary life
Where love passes and hopes slips through the cracks.
God can heal the pains! (He healed mine.)
We must all do our part:
Thoughtlessness abounds; notice and change.
Selfishness thrives in the get things world; share!
Hurt happens; be not oblivious; show compassion.
Minds might feel wrenched; speak kind words.
… Good deeds.
One forgotten smile that could have been—
One last hope that a stranger seeks—
One kindness, a gesture or word—
…Show love to another.
Sometimes, death yields to eternity before life is finished.
Unaware that omitted kindnesses might have made
…A difference. Be kind. Uplift the self-loathing.
Through prayer, mankind can recover from mortality.
Call upon the Lord, have faith and grow to perfection.
One act of love at a time—
© © Dane Smith-Johnsen
March 14, 2010
Poetic form: Free Verse
Every boy has his toys,
and each girl her dolls;
and as they grow they are put away where light can't enter:
there in that closet, which often memory recalls
how delightful and merry their days were,
but wishing for a return is a constant, useless prayer...
Everyone once had the possessions of a younger age,
some were precious and memorable, others simply painful and vacant;
and who can remember being hugged and truly loved by all?
Many still reminisce the sad thought of having been offered none at all,
and how they longed to have felt a little, sweet taste!
Nobody desired that more than I did, and only mother provided that!
Blue-bells seemed blither than I.. colored flowers that have no feel,
no soul to express their joy or sorrow, had I become like them?
Larks and mockingbirds weren't as malcontent as I was indeed;
all they wished for was some rain and the quietest place to rest!
Oh, how much sympathy I felt...with no one loving them, but their Creator;
and my circumstances affirmed how true that really was for me to declare!
An evil doer can be a father, who denies his children profound affection;
malice or thoughtlessness scars the hearts of the tender ones,
to become a malady or blight that leaves many fragments of broken lives;
and shouldn't someone grab them by the scruff of their necks,
and put some sense into them when they intentionally induce pain?
This snarl...rebelled at such atrocity, although no slaps could prevent those tries!
Husbands love your wives devotedly,
mistresses are the cause of your adultery;
would the faithful ones pursue an extramarital affair?
And what are the consequences of your sin and surliness?
A curse from God for many generations,
to deny your little ones the possessions of a younger age!
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Miss Sunshine was her sobriquet, and she the golden child
All through her happy infant days she wore that winning smile
She loved the colors nature gave, but sensitive and shy
She suffered from the thoughtlessness of some at junior high.
So music was her salvation, she practiced all the while
And breathed new life into sad songs with unique wondrous style
And harmony came naturally, in shades of dark and light
As with her paintings and her song she kept her spirit bright.
In the Valley of the Nightingales, by peaceful waters there
That sylvan voice of honeyed cream still dances in the air
Gifted by the shooting star with heart and mind so pure
The softly spoken blue chanteuse too fragile to endure.
Then morphine -laced to ease her pain and lifted to her chair
She sang out What A Wonderful World and left pure magic there
Adored by friends and family, her last performed goodbye
She graced the notes with perfect pitch and heard her angels cry.
She never got that little house, dreamed of, by ocean's roar
She never sang out to the seas from treasured golden shore
The brigade choir out of sight down some yellow brick road
Sings clear with Eva clothed in white, in Toto's fields of gold.
In the Valley of the Nightingales, by peaceful waters there
That sylvan voice of honeyed cream still dances in the air
Gifted by the shooting star with heart and mind so pure
The softly spoken blue chanteuse too fragile to endure.
INSPIRED BY FACTS FROM THE BOOK - EVA CASSIDY- SONGBIRD
HEAR ME SING THIS IN CONCERT.
ON YOUTUBE - VALLEY OF THE NIGHTINGALES, LOUIS SPENCE
THANK YOU.