Long Thursdays Poems
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It's been a good while
Since the last time we talked
I'm definitely better off for it
And hell, I hope you are too
I've realized a lot since then
Since we took a shovel to the spine of our relationship
It's not like a golden ray of light after the night
But more like a fog has been lifted on this highway
You were apparently the sole remaining thread
That tied me to my past so heavily
And as I gaze upon my old kingdoms
My Falconia and Crimsonia are a lot more ruined than I remember
No longer are my memories pure bastions of a Golden Age
No longer do I exclude them from my current point of view
There was plenty of bad amongst the good
And to fetishize them as such was only hurting me
My Full Moon Queen isn't just a concept
Not a long-dreamt dream of an unobtainable goddess
But a woman I loved seven years ago
When I was a child and love was a foreign concept
We've both grown up in different ways
Much as I've gone through countless trials and tribulations
Surely she has as well
Nothing remains static, and all dreams must be woken from
I poured the depths of my mind onto pages upon pages for credit
And turned them in to a man who couldn't hope to read them
Among the sea of similar pages he'd have to read
And yet the concept was enough to shake me from my reverie
It's been a strange few months
No more constant anxiety, which in turn causes anxiety to form
After all, I'm not used to not having something to worry about
It's a strange, empty feeling that I both love and loathe
In a sense, part of me died with you
A part of me that held onto childhood with an iron grasp
That saw everything, even hell, cast in deep twilight
Was it a Golden Age or just gold tinted lenses?
The sun's set a little past twilight
Atop this dusky hill where flowers are starting to bud
I've dreamt this same hill covered in dead leaves under twilight
Same time, same Thursdays, same hill
But with a part of me gone and a new part growing
To fill the hole you left behind
To fill the gaps that growing up left behind
A being of scar tissue and hope, left behind to begin anew
May succulent grass upon buds in June
I walked alongside you September, arrived in you October,
it began in December and ended in January
I slept in February woke up in March and danced in April
July lingered in August leaving out November & December
The weekdays bleated Sunday struck the last Saturday followed by Monday...
I walked naked my feet alongside the earth.
My hands weakened by Tuesday and yet I still dance this weekend by the sun-drenched firefly’s Wednesday seemed to lust Thursdays by Friday I appeared to walk alone.
Last dampish autumn
For a stormy, dark sea prowls
betrayed by the stone
Macrocosm down,
down
downwards
into the darkness of the carnal mind
forget the adult light sea prowls
Misty
dense
Clouding
but
Daze
The vanishing footsteps on the window pane,
come crashing down the trees stay silent.
notes that never crossed,
weeping aloof, grass hunts no witness.
Heartbeats never stop
come crashing down the trees stay silent.
moon-lit sunshine cascades over the setting campfire
dancers twist around the rosy glow of the moon-lit sun
Were you ever real?
The fiddler weeps as his music reaches the ears of the falling trees
and yet still alongside the road silent whispers
echo as the wind blows and howls
armed yachts sail the tall grass in fruitless search of land.
as I swim to find home the moon behind me and the sunken sun in front of me
did we dance under the stars?
When you looked at me, I knew there and then I was safe, from each dream.
I walked to expose you
However, you were never to be found and to this night I still wandered.
did we ever hold hands?
You and I are now apart, I did wonder.
As I compose this letter of music beats, I address it to my inner child,
I wish you all the best.
to be placed into the bottle and cast into the tall grass.
I never did find that bottle but now I ask was this the wish of the decayed tree.
I drink tea on Tuesday only
after two.
Charity is done with the utmost sincerity on Mondays, Thursdays, and every other
Saturday.
Chidren?
Should be seen and never heard
interrupting their elders every word
these days.
Two children.
Dutiful doctor of a daughter.
Successful senator son.
Wall street husband
well planned years.
Board meetings, ballet class, soccer games
conference calls,
late night correspondences of letter and lace.
Entree's of solitary dinners.
Delicate.
Crystalware set upon the table for two
tasted by
one.
All is as it should be.
Dutiful, delightful daughter who heals her patents
well.
Know her by her cell and e mails.
A stylish, successful son.
Whom I
groomed, greased to pristine perfection.
Replaced
on his arm by a
shallow shiny vixen.
But.
All is
judicious
just
adequate
mediocre.
Following the rules of conduct
guarantees
contentment commitment.
Commitment contentment the rules
will bring
home, husband crystal ware.
I drink tea on Tuesday.
Charity is done with sincerity.
moments of melancholy despair?
Only on Thursday at ten,
after I drink
tea on Tuesday.
“Have a good day always with God’s precious blessings!”
…Awesome message of triumph-anchored fervency...
Thankful for time of satisfaction's ecstasy
I have delightful hours of jubilant musings!
Sundays do enrapture me by praise-filled worship
Around fellowship-bond and Scriptures' steadfastness…
…Gearing Mondays’ pursuits of servant’s fruitfulness
Within joyful harmonious work-relationship!
On Tuesdays are routinely chores needing glow’s might
Midst smiting trials challenging my victor’s stand;
Wednesdays give respite from grievous pressures’ demand
Thru faith-driven plight toward peaceful distress-flight!
With Thursdays’ busy schedule and assignments
Divine interventions become marvelous grace
As for Fridays’ rush hours to hurdle the tough race
Coping styles work marvels in harsh engagements!
Saturdays end weeks with productive toils’ harvest
Knowing that all has been done beyond the utmost;
Though crises attack, they’re handled at prayer's cost
What matters is I spend seconds with my strength’s best!
Thus, fulfilling God's design drives my faith upward
When His granted moments are optimized indeed
That soon will create reminiscences to heed
On love-powered service as His faithful steward!*
*Luke 12:42 And the Lord said, Who then is that faithful and wise steward, whom his lord shall make ruler over his household...
Dear God,
Thank you so much for blessing me with good days by Your grace... Keep me trusting you while praising you for loving me, giving me Your Son Jesus Christ Whom I trust to have eternal life. I pray that you help me become a blessing to someone today, as I strive to share your Gospel for others' salvation. In Jesus' name, Amen.
September 4, 2018
10th place, "Enclosed Rhyme - September, 2018" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Dear Heart, a.k.a. Broken Wings; judged on 9/29/2018.
Looked up and down, right and left
Wondering why life suffers a theft
Subtracted beauty from my chin cleft
If I deserved and preserved the best
My love could lavish to attest
Why my love passed a preset test
Under dodgy durations of circumstances
Pummeling endeavours made in instances
That diminished and dwindled distances
Acknowledged to reveal robust character
On a bus, on a train, on foot, on a tractor
Where we determined adversity no longer a factor
In consolidating the love we feel
Grows by leaps and bounds despite the bill
Your family sprang on me to deal and kill
The foundations you and I have built
Over the years to fight to the hilt
Any machinations to pour heaps of silt
Into our love cogs
Meaning love should don cogs
Saunter under coercion in bogs and fogs
To prove its strength
Walking on hot coals at length
If truth should pervade and invade love width
To delight your parents
So worried and harried by overdue rents
We owe for domestic tents
That accommodate our nights and days
Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays
Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays and Sundays
Shared with supreme care
Far beyond compare
Even when evil eyes stare
Willing you and I could disintegrate
To delight the flight of the ingrate
Who wishes our relationship could migrate
Into Dante's Hades
Struck by full blown Aids
Enfeebled and disabled in beds
Where to detractors we surrender
Stuck owing bucks to the vendor
Who dares to crush our love in his blender
Administering his coup the grace
As we lie panting on yellow grass
Listening to soothing sounds of brass
Whispering osculation and consolation
Amid an attempt at immolation
Our love sustains not in isolation
But in tandem
With a hustled harem
Which sings its ultimate knell anthem.
Thursdays that disappoint !
A sadness reigns .
Some Thursdays come, most by, do go.
Why everyone does not flow ?, I do not know.
A lube job for you, an oil change for me.
No consistency, why ?, this I can not see.
Now taking two hours, sometimes more
When it used to be twenty minutes to my door.
Slipping the head of the family into the crevice.
Sliding effortlessly into that moist, dark cave.
Penetrating, feeling, touching walls that gave
shelter – for a time – to little solders on the run.
In search for that nest of eggs, now only for fun.
For the years have taken, as did a medical device.
Knowledge of, know full well that this cave is barren.
Representing only a portion of its former self.
The rest placed upon some medical shelf.
Gone is the time of productivity, into space, staren.
In search of, becomes the joy, the adventure,
the desire and the pleasures, during a time.
Times of closeness, not always, are they mine.
That is alright, I guess, with this families head.
Not alight are the excuses, the reasons I am fed
for the loss, the denial of Thursday night,
the searches, resurrecting of the hunt I might
continue - in that beautiful cave – searching.
Trying to find the right door, reaching.
Searching for those none existent eggs, to ply
the pleasures found in the hunt – denied, why?
One has to wonder, what was your game.
To know all the others, to know their name,
Would not comfort, would not make things the same.
No !, and should the hunt come to an end ?,
know, that no matter what, I will still be a friend.
Know that consistency is the spice of life,
as is spontaneity and desire without strife.
Has life in the spice jar, been forever lost ?
Celibacy, indifference, aloneness the cost ?
B. J. “A ” 2
April 10th 2005
Everyday is beautiful, son,
and no that's not being optimistic.
You're here - you're alive - with one more day on your plate.
That's just being realistic.
Tuesdays are for Tenderness, for the little things found beneath the rubble:
a flower peeking or a new-dream seeking, even though its subtle.
Wednesdays are for Wishes --- like hoping on that pretty, pretty star,
for something just around the corner is never all that far.
And Thursdays are for Thoughtfulness, on those reflective afternoons,
where all of life hangs between your ears, as your heart struggles to make room
for all the love that's bursting inside of you ...
(I know it's there!
hiding somewhere ... perhaps beneath the dirt and muck)
Fridays are for Friendship --- to the ones who you know true,
and hold you oh so close, despite all of life's various hues.
Saturdays are for Sanctification from all of distraction's clutter;
an occasion to make small your piece of toast, for there's too much of time's butter,
spreading oh so thin on Little You.
And Sundays are for Sunflowers, and the smile that ensues on even the coldest soul.
Treasure it child, if you ever see it bloom, for she's a fragile beauty that makes you whole.
Yes, my son ... EVERY day is beautiful, and Mondays especially,
for that's the day we praise our Mothers,
for giving birth to us at such a time as this (God knows it wasn't easy)
And no, I don't need to see the Seven Wonders,
to know how beautiful life can be,
for I've got all the splendor I can handle ...
... seven days a week.
Image Used: The I Hate Mondays T-Shirt Picture
Written April 10th, 2016
For the Images Contest Hosted by Silent One
On Wednesdays I get angry,
and on Thursdays I make pots,
and then I am no longer angry.
When I’m angry I blast Buddy Holly—
but I keep the windows up.
And then I think it’s so funny, you know,
that I’m listening to Weezer,
and I’m reminded of how much I miss Joseph,
and then I am no longer angry.
Chloe drapes heating pads over me
and Lauryn goes to the store for cake
when I say I have a sweet tooth
but my back is aching bad.
I tell Jenna I feel crazy
and she says,
Do you want me to tell you
about a time I did something so crazy?
I stand at the window and I eat mint Milanos
and I watch a couple kiss goodbye.
They are my age and I wish I wanted to roll my eyes
but I see him tip her chin up with his finger
and I exhale.
My parking’s getting worse but
I’m getting better at not feeling
like I need to drive everyone home all the time.
Muddie keeps spare contacts on my sink and goes home in my jeans,
and my eyelids flutter shut when they hum in the mornings.
I’ve been thinking about the man in the hat
at the Vietnamese restaurant.
He was sitting alone and his smile was so warm
and I’ve been thinking about how often
I discount men in hats.
If I step outside I can hear the kids at recess, and the sun smells so good,
and we always find enough chairs for all the friends at the dinner table.
I really don’t listen to Weezer all that much.
Gina brings muffins from work and burns them twice in my oven.
The people at the film shop know my name.
My cousin cries when I take her to the airport.
I think my heart could burst open at the nothing of it all.
Con't from Pt 1
At two years old your motherly instincts took me away./ What could my "mother" say,/ she
was married to a man who had a violent hand./ I was too young to understand./ But being
with Grandmomma was God's plan./ There was never a time I was too old for you to hold./
You protected me from abusive hands./ You would take beatings in my place from your old
man./ Vile names would sting my young ears./ Your arms would comfort me and you would
wipe away my tears./
I remember as a child, Thursdays,/ being the best days./ A movie, then a toy,/ and ice
cream could be no greater joy./ I was Grandma;'s boy/ You kept my belly full with home
cooked meals./ You were the one who watched me ride my first bike without traiining
wheels./
You use to tuck me into bed./ Read me a story and kiss my head./ The times I was sick with
fever,/ you watched over me without catching a breather./
For twenty-nine years your love was unconditional and without end./ You were not only
my Grandmomma but my Mother, Father, my friend./ I pray my words spiritually reach to
you beyond those pearly gates./ Because like in life, and in death, God had made us
eternally Soulmates!/ I love you momma.....
Billie Jean Alexander Lopez May 1, 1937-July 26, 2007
Note: I just finally finished this piece for my momma, It took 2 years!
The form of poetry is "spoken work" Thought I would share this piece with you guys.
It's a deep personal piece and I hope it "reads well"
Jimmy
Some days, I am a dreamer of the future.
I tend to imagine myself treading paths
I've always dreamed of taking.
At night, before I sleep I try to
Envision myself in a court defending
A client with all my might and knowledge
Mondays, I am an attorney.
Tuesdays, I step on stage and hold a
Microphone as I stand before the eyes of
Thousands of international public speakers.
Wednesdays, I am an artist.
I like to think I have this magic within me
Where I'm capable of making a whale
Fly freely up above the sky or the
Power to make eyes talk and be alive
Thursdays, I am a poet enchantress
Full of metaphors and languages
One wouldn't learn immediately.
Fridays, I am a creative writer
My fingers tremble as I release the
Monsters in my head and alter reality
On weekends, I am a broadcaster, a hunter
Of news and caster of truths with my voice
Heard and listened everywhere you go
But most of the time, I am just a girl
With an ambitious soul living inside this
Lackadaisical body and I keep walking on
A treadmill facing a single direction making
Efforts with seen and heard footsteps
But no signs of movements forward.
I am stuck in a labyrinth of self-doubts and
Insecurities with a lack of energy to climb its
Walls and try to see what's out there
I am in a continuous cycle of hallucinations
My mind wanders to different dreams and paths
But my body is in a frozen state of carelessness.
I am a stagnant river, calm and still
When I'm supposed to be flowing endlessly.