Long Top(a) Poems
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On a sunny day in late September
we were on our way to Runswick Bay,
on a walk that we gladly remember,
meeting people on the Cleveland Way.
Assorted folk with the same idea
taking in distant views over the sea,
a gentle breeze, the far horizon clear,
nearby hips and haws bright on bush and tree.
Whoever you meet, just what do you say?
Should it be ”Hi!” or rather “Hello!”?
Is it “Good morning” or maybe “Good day?”
If they greet me first I go with the flow.
Whatever is said may offer a clue,
tell you something about the other,
whether there is further chat to pursue
or just some remarks about the weather.
Having arrived we sat by the beach
eating our sandwiches watched by some dogs
and seagulls, waiting to swoop or to reach
for tasty morsels, whatever drops.
After a paddle to refresh my feet,
there were four and a half miles to return
to Sandsend for our walk to complete.
First there were steps to climb by the burn,
passing more people too breathless to greet;
grateful to pause we let them pass by
with a nod or wave – but wished for a seat!
There at the top a gate was held wide
by a couple with smiles to wave us through.
We paused as I stretched my cramp to ease
also to remove a stone from my shoe;
then onward we trod refreshed by the breeze.
Off the cliff face using the updraught
fulmars glided scanning the sea below.
Retracing our steps, features we'd passed
informed us how far we still had to go.
High on his combine, late harvest to reap
the farmer raised his hand as we stopped,
paused to pick blackberries more sharp than sweet.
Speckled wood butterflies near to us dropped.
At last we came to more steps to descend,
holding the rail as these tested our knees.
Pausing again with views of Sandsend
and spray from breakers whipped up by the breeze.
Back at the car there was salt on the screen.
Time to examine my blistered feet
and to doze awhile, pondering the cuisine
of Whitby and just what we might eat:
Scampi and whitebait with too many chips,
cans of ginger beer to ease it all down,
observed by gulls we looked at the ships
that brought our supper to this port of renown.
* * *
We count our blessings that we were able
to escape to the coast for refreshment
before Covid restrictions on travel
could prevent a day of enjoyment.
the black word at the top
"Confuses"
probably not just me
but what does it me
on this card all about satiation of a puzzle piece of Freudian slips
of the ego maniac dealing me a hand
of a two sided card
The Blue "Spirits" written on the bottom upside down
I do no know the right side up
and the "masks is there on the side
just one card professor
just one card
the nine of hearts
a piece of the puzzle
a piece of the chapter
a legacy of five hearts upright
showing me there is more love than what may be topsy turvy
four hearts upside down under the top five
and when i flip this card over what do i find
on the other side
the six of clubs
a card of success
Blue on top a word that speaks "Alone"
Down at the bottom and upside down
an omen written "within"
and on the side i have "expressive"
My deck of 26 cards with two sides
and these are just a few of my favorite things
the puzzle of Freudian slips
the word game
spirits within
confuses expressive masks
alone
I'll never know
on card with two tails heads and tails
would you like a reading after you read the fairytale?
would you like to know more more than the yes or no to your answer and what
you found here to the question you didn't t know to ask
and what have you found in this moment you are made up
besides the greed and arrogance you pine and hide away?
did you cry
did anyone come to intervene
did the destroyer change your ways from those who could wipe
this place clean
and is time ticking tick tock ticking away
to reflect within the mirrors
around you echoing your souls
as we all cry
and cry like teddy bears
banshee teddy bears
is time still ticking away?
success of being satiated
cursed by being alone within and expressing it
to confuse your spirits and mask it all
such a poetic piece of art
my nine
my nine my valentine six of clubs nine of hearts
trump taking trick winning mastermind trump
hand winning card of the game fortunetellers jaw drop right now
because they are also god given
when they see the mirror magic of alphabets and words reflected in my living
room surrounded by tick tock ticking
clocks
and i cry every night
like a banshee
wanting to rewind the tapes see what i would have missed if i didn't take it all on
and what is left for me
are my hands gonna be clean?
Oh wow. Oh great. Look over there. Quickly now. Come on. It is the mitigating migrating mammoth mansions. Brick by brick and bone by bone. In a line. Travelling. Traversing the plains, fields and mountains but not on roads for roads are neither natural nor normal so always wear a tea cosy hat when pouring tea at a tea party. It is to show not to shine that has the sun in a pondering and philosophical mood. The auric rays are neither a moon sitting in a tree nor are they a kayaking planetary alignment. High seas then create high teas. Whirling in circling dresses of spotted green. But never in a greenhouse does one find a tomato in a tantrum. For tomatoes are very very mild mannered especially when given a drink. And this is good for compost can be crafty and doesn't like moods. A wafer thin biscuit is a flat chested mermaid moving around at the dusk. By the marina. Catching a glimmer is easy for the eyes of the octopus in an office with high rimmed glasses. Circle then dash. Tick tick tick. Form done. Signed. Signatures separate stagnant stale stupors. And the fat wading brat bird yawns on a front bench in a large ornately decorated room. How common. And yet rather uncommon is the master of the seaweed sermon whose speakers are never wise upon answering questions and questions are rarely answered so why play noughts and crosses with a jute duty bug? Inheritance is not to be placed in a kissing box for boxes are to be reserved for tiny biscuits who march around chaotically chairing and chanting at quite important times. Thus causing a lot of little flowers to sigh and droop their heads in an apathetical style. In a scrapbook posy position. The layout is not the layer and the label is a laugh. Numeration of a numerator is a numerical nautical nonchalant nerd. And the beast of the best bank is not to be trusted with a styrofoam cup. No never gi e it that cup. Always give it a baby bottle. For it is ignorant and infantile. Beware of the two foot clam in that drawer then when you are putting socks away. Hahaha a mist is coming to play cards and monopoly with a tree top, a hill, a perfume factory, and a zoo. Hahaha dolphin and duet with a dancing seahorse at a grand opera. Xxxxx desensitization Z now eat a nice scone and sing la la la to a doorframe. Z peacocks.
Form:
In Ongata Rongai's club, a memory song weaves,
A tale of Newton Karish and daring thieves,
Late '90s, New Year's Eve, a lively show,
A sold-out crowd, in high spirits, they'd go.
Karish, unlike modern stars who mime,
With a live band and dancers, he'd shine.
From 10 pm till dawn's early light,
He'd entertain with all his might.
Dancers lost in rhythms, the crowd in delight,
As midnight approached, spirits took flight,
But then, at 2 am, a sudden hush fell,
Speakers went mute, a foreboding spell.
A gang, six or seven, with weapons untamed,
Machetes, clubs, and rusty guns they aimed,
"KILA MTU LALA CHINI!" the leader's decree,
Patrons, sobered, herded, as fear grew free.
"EVERYONE, GET NAKED!" his next demand did ring,
So, they stripped down to nothing, a peculiar, shocking thing,
As the gang searched pockets, taking what they could find,
The crowd cowered on the cold floor, fear etched in their mind.
The gang's leader, bold with humor in tow,
Ordered the speakers to once again glow,
Onstage, Karish and his band stood bare,
Naked and vulnerable, in the chilling air.
"START SINGING!" the gang leader's absurd command,
Karish, his voice trembling, had to withstand,
"Muthoni Kifagio," the song he must perform,
A satirical piece, to ridicule and inform.
Adding humor to the tale's unique lore,
The gang chose a dancer, a man to explore,
An old, pot-bellied, short figure in a cowboy hat,
Dancing comically for the gang; imagine that!
The heist was brief, mere minutes had passed,
And the gang disappeared, leaving the patrons aghast,
Naked and frantic, like a colonial scramble they raced,
For clothes to wear, in haste, they embraced.
Karish and his band, furthest from the pile of clothes,
Landed mismatched attire, confusion arose,
Karish in a spaghetti top, a scent of perfume so strong,
His wife at home, his troubles, he'd explain ere long.
No offense, but imagine the scene so bizarre,
As the pot-bellied dancer, in a cowboy hat, old by far,
Wore lady's biker short, oh what a sight,
In an unexpected place, a humorous plight.
To this day, Karish worries and ponders,
How the dancer, in his unusual wonders,
Explained to satisfaction, to his wife's delight,
Why he wore lady's biker short that night.
-This buds for you!-
-It takes one to know one!-
-I know you are, but what am I?-
A second hand, on my stopwatch, going nowhere!
You are a joker, a smoker, a midnight stroker
<-------How, about that, Steve Miller song
I'm not here to talk about the way you comment a poem
That's not how I roll, now listen, and listen well,
I don't care, about them words you speak
A whining sheep, every time you don't score
Crying behind close doors,
Boo-Who, I did not place high in so-and-so's contest
Gosh&dammit, not everyone's on a quest
Blogging, about the day, your poem got demoted to nonsense
Trying to comment relentlessly,
You can't top, a mountain that has no setup
I'd rather leave a copy paste comment,
"than being fake as fake can be"
At least, my copy paste was a song,
in which welcome the new poets on
Treating, everyone with love and security
Your invites, are cold and force, to you it's not about community
No motion, to your notion, simple, and disgusting
I don't know why you think, we are competing,
Long ago, I left you bleeding, no reason to be defeating
Your paranoia, has you thinking, it's all about the points,
It's getting old and boring,
You cry babies are nothing more than jokes and hypocrites
Hey you, this ain't dominoes, we done pass every Jo-Jo
When, I have time I sit here for fun, my trigger finger on the gun
Reading, commenting, until my day is done
You think, because someone, left a copy paste
That your poem was not read,
Perhaps, it was not understood, or enjoyed
Or, a welcome to the neighborhood
A nice smile, from me to you
Nice poem, You Rock!
So What! ---- WOW!
This Bud's for you
I think it's time for you to GET A LIFE!
Be glad someone took their time, in checking you out twice
Not, everyone on this site, is full of bull-****
The smallest words, are more likely to be legit
I don't need and expensive comment,
I don't want to impress, when it comes to the best comment
Please do not make love to my poem!
A nice pat on my back will do,
Now that my friend, puts a smile on my face
To know you care, to know you were there:)
Peace Out,
~SKAT~
I’d extend an invitation
to all in the congregation
through this speech of inspiration
which is quite a compilation
yet I expect no adulation
and no gest of adoration
for in my own estimation
it’s a trifle occupation
clearing out the obfuscation
of a simple predication
o’er the course of this oration
through the rhyme of this dictation
See it’s a feebly built narration,
or an errant adaptation
sitting ‘top a weak foundation
grounded on some old quotation
writ in archaic notation
which seems to bear no strong relation
to the current held fixation
on the poorly built translation
which is more of a mutation
than an actual citation.
Now to give a brief summation
I will fight off the temptation
and my present inclination
to continue this vocation
and I’ll risk your irritation
with this act of abdication
and upset your expectation
by using this line instead
to add a bit of variation
as the only deviation
in my final recitation.
Now please stifle your elation
as I offer resignation
for I’m out of medication
and I fear the obligation
to interpret revelation
meant to spell out your salvation
is to my great consternation
causing meal regurgitation
and worse stomach ulceration
though at best the correlation
is just my imagination.
So I’m taking a vacation
to a tropical location
lost in wild vegetation
where I’ll watch in adoration
those grass skirts in their gyration
and sip drinks of fermentation
to avoid the dehydration
that always comes by deprivation
or by over-conservation.
If it’s any consolation,
after lots of vaccination
I’ll pursue my destination
through a week of navigation
on a vessel of flotation
as my mode of transportation
and forego all aviation.
So I plead, dear congregation
understand my situation
‘spite my freedom from taxation,
just suppress your indignation
toward my dreams of recreation
though I have no explanation
save this current presentation.
And though there is no valuation
for true acts of consecration,
after much consideration
if you’d show your dedication
with a generous donation,
I could use the insulation.
Amen.
On the Top of a Hill
Now that we have reached atop a hill
We may wish to stare at the sky,
Long to stay there for a long while
Or wish to have wide wings to fly;
Now that we have are at the top a hill
Let us not forget those left behind,
Toiling night and day in the field
To earn a daily bread for their living;
Let us not ignore the helpless souls,
But bring a ray of happiness
To weaker folks in dire needs
And comfort to those in distress;
Let us partake the light of joy
With those with no roof for the night,
With those who have no meals a day
And those with no future in sight;
Let us dispense our love and care
To neglected elderly souls
Without a prop to stand and stare
And bereft of all affection;
Let our heart not be cast in stone,
But shine with the light of compassion
That seeks not any gratitude,
But is filled with comprehension;
Let us be the true instruments
Of the bountiful Supreme Lord,
The mercy of God to implement
On His distinctive earthly plane.
Written 25 March 2023
Edited 29 March 2023 for :
A Brian Strand Premiere no 1204 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
Once upon a stranger
A girl A well intentioned woman
With open and adorned soul
Askance behind silvered eyes and sighs,
Revealing her concealed seraphic smiles
In an unending sequence.
Yielded in gleams in day dreams,
With folklores and odes chronicling her unique meekness.
Once upon a moment.
I heard silent whispers fade
Within a bus on a starry August night
She stood up to take one last view
With hope gleaming in her heavy eyes
Half in joy half in fear.
Once upon what it seems
The empty streets the cold store fronts
In the stark of the night she fumbled and crumbled
In the heat of the day she struggled and saddled
Into the realms of unaccompanied paths;
A forlorn forest A dense city street
An unchained soul is caged
(By the ugly parodies of society)
In cells in the dungeons of her mind
She ponders on her dreams reality killed
As she walked through the shanty streets, accompanied by cheer and fond memories.
Once upon a again
Her hope lingers near;
To fill the void with beauty, Top a class of fifty.
Her dreams ignite cheer;
To rekindle the lonely, Build Hope for the needy.
An ebullience cradling every night, dazed with smiles lit by echoes.’
Once upon loop of forever after
Lamentations probed!
Between forced marriages and a broken home,
One demure in her succinct lifetime
Raped abused and ignored.
A predicament lurking for so long,
Gradually prancing into suicidal thoughts.
And her world took a dark turn
For the moments were near felt burnt
And she recoiled deeper into her shells
Too late for your remorse and wishing wells.
Once upon a stolen dream
Once upon a neglected childhood
Once upon a depressing stroll
Once upon an abusive womanhood
Once upon a forced marriage
Once upon time and time again
“A bowed head,
Seeking shelter from raging tempests”
And as she lies on her five feet mat deep In her sleep where dreams unfold,
The Queen rises once again with seraphic smiles in her ultimate paradise.
Photo credit: Darwin Leon “Rape”
Save the Queen!
Sand scrapes my skin as I wake,
Warm water around my shoulders break,
Spluttering, I shake my head and open my eyes,
Palms and dunes to my surprise.
Shock constricts my body as I cannot register time and space,
The bar, the music, the fast pace
Am I dreaming?
What is this place?
Try to rise but there’s a heavy weight,
Body entangled in a putrid drape,
The marine meadow; a slimy constraint,
A sea tangle, I must escape.
Rigidly I strip away the remnants of the sea,
And drag myself to the water's edge to cleanse the whole of me.
Crustaceans, salt, an external coat of slime
Begone the foulness drying with time.
The pristine coastline,
White sand stretching around,
The cove overshadowed by palms and vines,
An escape, if invited, to relax and unwind.
Mangoes and coconuts,
But where is the wine?
The wine that blanketed my mind.
For somehow I have been transported to a time,
Of an unknowing adventure, that was not planned by mine.
Flashes of a yacht, bright lights and sound,
A heavy splash, to a sinking drown,
A sea coated awakening, a heavy frown,
I’d fallen over, but not shut down.
Heavy of heart, I wander through the brush,
Unforgiving terrain cuts at my thighs,
I seek the higher ground,
My body persists with audible sighs.
The top; a vista of incredible size
Without division between water and sky,
I feel lost and abandoned,
Overwhelmingly I cry.
A reflective sparkle from down below,
Catches my eye as a shape appears to glow,
My yacht, my friends,
My place in the world.
Scrambling down,
Excited and desperate,
I stumble, and crash,
My body too wretched.
The target is near,
life saving and clear,
But I cannot see the ground beneath me,
Anxiousness enveloping my all,
And I fall.
Fall, and fall.
The facade leans out, like a medieval pell,
As I descend into a violent chasm,
Torn and broken, a cry ringing in the death knell.
A heavy thud easy to fathom.
Isn’t she beautiful?
When you top a steep slope and look down upon her hills, tumbling over each other for miles, covered in greenery of new spring, you realize that she, the land, is immaculate.
But she, the people, is often disappointing.
Do not blame the ground; she only holds them.
You shouldn’t blame her, everyone everywhere will never be perfect.
She is no special home for those who are intolerant and bigoted.
Yet I find myself blaming her anyway.
They are part of her after all.
It is not the land’s fault for the people, though she is soaked with unjust blood.
But so is the rest of this nation!
There is no exception in the entirety of this harrowed country.
Let’s love her canyons and glittering caves for what they are, exquisite facets of the land.
Her people are another matter, yet they should be carefully examined.
Let us not dwell on them for now.
We will critique them in good time.
We should appreciate her for what she is.
A honey sweet land, caught in the wisps of fresh spring.
Furiously flowering in the sweltering heat of the South.
Bare trees grasping the bright blue in the dead of December.
River run deep, like veins feeding the bayous and lakes of her body.
Her heart lies in the wide basin of the river valley, pumping the Ozarks away for the Ouachita Mountains.
Birds sing and soar in her sky; their songs her voice abroad.
Grasses sway in her breeze; her gorgeous flowing locks.
Fish dance in her waters; her dynamic ideas.
Trees dig into her earth; her ever maturing mind.
Rain pools in puddles that reflect the starlight; her mourning in twilight.
Cicadas and crickets roar in summer symphonies; her laughter in the evening.
Gloaming her sigh as she lays down her head and aurora her yawn as a new day begins.
Oh my love, mea dulcis amor, if only your politics weren’t so foul, you would be Eden.