Long Toughened Poems
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I, a Red Skin dog, as some may delight to call me,
I have heard the tales of horror, from my dark skinned foes.
I have heard the tales of terror, from others who became my friends.
And I have walked with a dark skinned woman of their tribe.
We walked in the beauty of her courage, together. Tearless.
Tearless we both were as she spoke, for tears, only gods could cry for her.
I am a Red Skin dog.
And yet we walked together and we talked – together, fearless,
I and this swaying ebony sapling, sprung from the roots of my foes tribe.
We talked of the pitiless reality of that life she left behind, of that time
That she has left, far, far behind, like a useless scar
That has toughened over. And made her stronger.
I learned from this daughter of my foes
That true courage is never fearless, but always stronger. Victorious,
Stronger she was by far, to this Red Skin dog
Than the thousand sons who died, in her honor. So they say. Ridiculous,
But I have heard the balance of their sins.
And for all the tales I have heard from those angry young men, and their vengeful fathers
Her horror was a thousand times more sinister. A thousand times more callous.
Horror took up residence in her home but never in her heart.
But for others, I cannot speak.
“…splinters and bursting fragments…in my mind
Ai! Tearing! Memory of tearing flesh, swallowing tears and mucus, blood and bile
…bruising and ripping garments…off my body
…filthy, familiar hands tearing at my dress…
…my legs split and broken like a wild pig slaughter, my screams smashed from my lips,
With the butt of a rifle, just used to kill a Red Skin dog…
Aieee! Clean this floor mama, mop up this spew!
It cannot be mine!
This child is not mine!
It is not mine! It is the devils own creation born in hell fire!
Born in my death!
Aieee! I am dead, I cannot be alive.
I am dead and the Red Skin dogs have eaten my corpse.
Those spirits in their wingless chariot flew over the land and sea, to rescue me?
Rescue me from that black devil who said he was like Jesus to me.
I thought you were my uncle-brother…
Who else could have found us here?
Hidden away from the Red Skins and their Wingless Angels.
Only you my uncle-brother
Only you could have found us
Only you could have killed us.
And now the progeny of your evil deed suckles at my breasts
As I lie dead in the home of those Red Skin dogs you fought.”
H-E-L-P!!! N-e-e-d s-o-m-e b-o-d-y!!!...
Spouse booby trapped husband!!!
Homicide courtesy munch
house zen by proxy
immediately suspected hunch
police, K9 corps, and ambulance
nearly lost their lunch crossing over divide
yellow crime tape
cordoned off homicide
booted feet did poetically crunch
while leashes untangled,
viz braided bunch.
Law enforcement officers i.e. they
Perkiomen Township precinct tidy
as... executive attache
case headed by narcotics
mod squad trooper Amelie
Beth knew address of scrivener brother
immediately quaffed mouthful Schuylkill
downing requisite with "FAKE" sedative cray
zee that seems giving
judicious punch to allay
time and again marital altercations daresay
put Schwenksville neighborhood
under immediate lockdown
Bay of Pigs in comparison childsplay
summoned rookies re:
instant karma coldplay
witnessed unusual display
officers, paramedics, and trained
German shepherds on faux pas did pray
(canines formerly under religious sway
nsync with neutered saint Matthew Scott
sacred church fathers and mothers
panglossian benevolence ne'er betray
loved spouting doggerel pay
Canis lupus familiaris obeissance
oh... I got scent tum mental anyway
kit and caboodle - women in blue,
plus aforementioned cod ray
regarding medical technicians
braced themselves steely, fiery, burly,...
former career recruits, thus okay
toughened courtesy green beret
fearless motley crew did sashay
gingerly, nimbly, softly... treading listening
faintly hearing sauntered without delay,
whence plaintive bent down on haunches
analogous to plie (plea yea)
including dogs ready to spring,
where overly curious inquisitive nee
bores asked to take selfie oy vey
afterwards quickly made bee line
discerning most strategic way
to enter apartment and rescue
a scene no stranger Giacomo Casanova,
to Rabelais, or Marquis de Sade
chaos theory put thru paces
mind boggling utter disarray
courtesy the missus
floor to ceiling clutter, perhaps soiree
gone awry with personal paraphernalia
strewn helter skelter hodge podge
bajillion potential accidents away
one misstep to temper and disable
garden variety trumpeting popinjay.
Here's the second part to my Crown of Sonnets.
It was not over - I knew it,
The scene at the movies - I'll omit,
After that - all was bright,
I knew I loved you - you were my light,
But I did not know - if I would fit,
You did not need - me the misfit,
But I was not ready - to give up the fight,
Still I made sure - that was alright,
Because of this - I refuse to quit,
My heart's the treasure - you're the bandit,
You had my life - at first sight,
This is why - it's so hard to write,
I cannot put - this onto paper,
And tell the story - to the reader.
And tell the story - to the reader.
I've tried my best - without censor,
To to tell what's happened - when, and why,
Well, all the things - that truly apply,
Through all my poems - you get a glimmer,
Of all the sweet - that destroyed the bitter,
Even so - I would never deny,
That some of this - made me cry,
But through this - I am stronger,
I can fight - for you longer,
It is not time - to say goodbye,
I will never say it - until I die,
This is for you - this is for me,
This is for what - we were supposed to be.
This is for what - we were supposed to be.
It may seem - a little corny,
I cant stop - thinking about this,
Right after - we shared our first kiss,
You were strong - yet goofy,
Your silly jokes - made me happy,
I knew right then - this was bliss,
It was too good - to just dismiss,
Seeing you daily - texting you nightly,
Made me feel - unusually wonderfully,
It's times like those - that I miss,
So all I do - is sit back and remiss,
They say smile - because it happened,
I will because - our bond's deepened.
I will because - our bond's deepened.
I don't know - for what I'm destined,
All I know is - I'll do what I can,
To follow His - special plan,
I will not cry - because it's ruined,
I will walk through - the doors we opened,
Stretching out - my entire wingspan,
You're more than just - any ol' man,
Against the rocks - on the mainland,
You were thrown - and soon toughened,
A tool of God - a small chessman,
You never hid - you never ran,
It's sad but you know - what you must do,
I sit in my room - waiting for you.
She was lean, she was mean, a fighting machine.
Sixteen brothers had toughened her up.
She was secret woman, our little Arlene.
Raised on cold kerosene from a cup.
Our mother had passed when Arlene came into the world,
On a horribly stormy and mean October Saturday night.
We all crowded around, as the drama unfurled,
Sixteen brothers, and a dad, oh, so tight.
We dressed her in our best hand-me-downs, the best fellows all around.
And took turns with her feedings, up until a quarter ‘til three.
Dressed in blue overalls, and short-named Arley, she loved to run around.
Like a wild thing, thinking she was a boy, the best she could be.
When she started to school, the teachers wanted her to change F to M,
Thinking she was a boy, a fellow, one of the guys, which she thought she was.
Until one accidentally discovered she was girl, but knew nothing of fem.
Then them teachers started horning in teaching her to cook and sew and stuff.
Pa and us stood helplessly by, as they tried to change Little Arley into a girl.
It was great when she could make delicious chili soup and cheese cake surprise
But we were all irritated at sixteen when she started wearing girl clothes,
And got her eyes on some idiotic seventeen-year-old not-so-great guys.
She went to the prom, and we all followed along in our pick-up trucks and RVs.
She was our baby, and we were not about to let anything change our family’s way.
Five years later we followed her and her new husband to Texas, so he could see.
She was our baby, and we were not going to let her move so far away.
The marriage did not last, and we have lots of reasons and thinking about the why.
But she is home with pa now, safely tucked away, with her wedding dress on the closet door.
Making chili and pastries, and other good stuff like molasses cookies and pumpkin pie.
Home where she belongs, wild and crazy as ever, Little Arlene, we always knew before.
Little Arlene, the best auntie around,
Little Arlene, the one our children adore.
Little Arlene, the best sister we have found,
Little Arlene, home for ever more.
Little Arlene, Little Arlene, Little Arlene!
"Le vent se leve, il faut tenter de vivre."
"The wind is rising! We must try to live."
-Paul Valery
Feel the gust that flows unnoticed!
Hear the subdued growths of air
That grow like a nearing beast
Ferocious, with a wild glare
For the wind is rising.
The glorious power of nature
That can awe yet make fear -
A spectacle of eternal dreams
With pace, approaching near
The wind is rising.
Lo! It comes with a sudden flow
That takes with it whatever resists,
Through the oak, over the hills
Beyond the boundary of all limits;
The wind rises.
Behold its might! Over dark meadows
It flows, causing the grass to dance
Now here, now there, uncontrollable
It vanishes in the moment of a glance;
The wind has risen.
None can match its glorious pride
Even the mighty trees bow before it;
The wondrous monster sweeps past all
Its toughened arms pick dust and grit;
The wind is flowing.
It rushes past the valleys deep
Triggers rocks down mountain slopes
Its speed and power, none can stop -
A free horse, it breaks all ropes;
The wind is rushing.
Invincible, it marches on
Like an emperor feared by all,
A dictator, with power not measured
Rise of a legend, never to fall;
The wind turns violent.
The silence breaks, the barriers too
The wind zigzags amidst mountain peaks,
It bellows in the forests dark
The young, fatigued willows creak.
The wind is at its pinnacle.
Then the drizzle comes, then the thunderstorm
And oh! The fierce, mighty beast
Declines as raindrops fall
Dies down forming mist;
The wind fades away...
Yet its marks are vivid on the landscape
A spectacle of its enormous strength
It will revive, as a vicious beast
It would return again at length.
Free yet fierce, elegant yet wild
The angel who visits the human world
And all is lighted by his trail
And the might of nature is unfurled.
The wind had risen
It will rise,
As a voracious beast
To have all that suffice.
*************************
Tribute poem-
With Promise Of Entry, Elysium
Childhood, seeing from afar, candle burning bright
with courage, imagination seeing life through
always and forever the promise, heard each night-
walk a brave path, receive entry, as is your due,
heaven searching, whispers of two stars gazing back
honor true, never shall a God's power you lack.
Elysium- open gates, paradise awaits.
on battlefields- glory, set by "Hands of the Fates".
Ajax, blessed child and great warrior born to be
father- war god, mother a nymph of the blue seas
as a child roaming forests, with sword and long spear
a hero born and one totally without fear,
star gazing- seeing death would come, Elysian fields
his destiny, gifting all of its golden yields.
Elysium- open gates, paradise awaits.
On battlefields- glory, set by "Hands of the Fates".
Ajax, scarred and toughened, many battles fought
never surrendering, ever giving his all
a warrior true, there within Olympic feuds caught
steady and ever mindful of his final fall,
sky hunting, watching universe's resplendent glow
as decreed by the Gods- set to put on a show.
Elysium- open gates, paradise awaits.
On battlefields- glory, set by "Hands of the Fates".
Ajax, courageous warrior of Greek legend's fame
gifted with prowess of strength and courage to match
of Homer's Troy, that Greek hero, one and the same
always fated, for a Trojan war death to catch,
there on bloody soil, as Olympus had decreed
death claimed he, born of true and heroic Greek seed.
Elysium- open gates, paradise awaits.
On battlefields- glory, set by "Hands of the Fates".
R.J. Lindley, original version, May 9th, 1972
Rhyme, ( On Homer, Greek Mythology, Greek Warriors )
edited, and updated with link.. 8-18-2020
From new blog...
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Paternal Grandfather Aaron Harris...
Lovely bones long since disintegrated
into dustbin of genealogical history,
if still alive would rank as oldest person
clocking another one incremental increase
asper in chronological number
anniversary of his birth occurring within July
year unknown, but within
latter decades nineteenth century
obviously conceived nine months prior
perhaps after raucous Thanksgiving feast,
where biological exuberance
induced natural throbs activating
indomitable rutting boisterous merriment.
Nary handy dandy scant blues clue known
about biography of aforementioned
long departed grandpa
only smidgen smudged details recalled
vague nebulous memories, these predicated
upon his every now and again visits, oft
times after he relocated to Florida
sporting tanned leathery
toughened crocodile hide
predictably, invariably, delicately donning
name brand signature
wrist watch, (albeit analog)
affixed loosely dangling
from his well weathered
lobster like bony south claw,
this singularly enigmatic
eye catching jewelry
captivating, fascinating, intriguing
glittering name brand trademark timepiece
affecting myself and siblings, especially youngest
asserting, contesting, vouchsafing...,
who would occupy coveted seat
closest to simple mechanical contraption.
After supper, he would regale
us three Harris grandchildren
(offspring begat in part courtesy
his favorite native son named Boyce
thee father to yours truly)
illustrating multifarious adept skill
folding sheets of outdated newspapers
creating cut out dolls strung together,
and/or the knack whereby
with few brisk
(i.e. Jewish version of origami),
he quickly styled boats, chairs, hats
none of which survived our rambunctious
severe tests of durability,
nor could any of us kids
reproduce with any remote success,
those deceptively
seemingly easy to craft
paper dolls linkedin with joined hands.
Remember failures at school in the week,
my special needs I was academically weak
over the weekend successful at sport,
my strength and my ability growing more,
You would take the prize feeling from me,
remind me that I achieve nothing at school, take the sense of achievement and show me, the things I failed so I notice them all
Aware of my struggles and punish my good game, you never actually helped me learn though just point it out complain, next week school ADHD I'm in trouble, get that belt out trousers down slap me punish PAIN, tell me it's my fault and question why I stay the same?
Never giving guidance, take my prize and violence, cook and clean and tell me your providing, the weekend come around again another sporting triumph and tell me sport doesn't matter in life, nothing, so I'm frightened, Bath Mini Rugby wasn't something to have pride in, failure on my mind then, the hypocrite takes me swimming everyday and i mean all the days because my swim coach thought I was amazing, I was as well but she would never tell or says me, selected by the county squad my god I did do well, never encouraged.. Oh no naughty at school here comes the belt and the words about the failure forcing me to soak it in and know to well, for a few years success progress and still the same at school, nothing changed the belt didn't work, one day she hit me with it and didn't even hurt, she'd toughened me up taught me nothing but my inability and what I can do is a non important thing, so those 4 sports where 4 sports with no worth no point and abandoned, and i was left with nothing left no chance to advance no plan done, believing I wouldn't achieve because after it all I never had won, wasn't I lucky to have mum
with the belt not an option the psychological abuse began as i went out into the world as a young man.... part two taught to be sad
Voices bottled up, far away…out of reach
I still hear them, echoing in my brain
I try not to believe the fear—the disdain
So long I have avoided their gaze,
But here they are again, at a distance—
All ablaze!
I toughened my shell that night,
From the amplified words drenched in my hands
I cried so many tears for no words came
Unionized by grief and frustration,
How could I ever embrace such abandon?
I thought I could recognize by the fruits
As they were right before my eyes
But within their very cores,
Tears blur the rotten cries
The very words and deeds unspoken—untold
The very truth you tamper and mold
As fists clench—as confused youth look on!
He fashioned you with gold!
I hear gleeful harsh warnings—poetry—of the collateral damage of my brothers
Running up and down the streets—rampant to get at others
I try to see the beauty in every single shade
But now, all I can do is pray
Voices bottled up, far away…out of reach
I still hear them, echoing in my brain
I try not to believe the fear—the distain
So long I have avoided their gaze,
But here they are again, at a distance—
All ablaze!
All I can do I can do is pray
All I must do is pray
As the fumes of the anger light up today
Destroying all trapped inside
Splitting the atoms of our faith
I promise you will fall!!!
How gleeful you all are!
I promise the unity is all a dream
Nothing’s like it seems
Inside, I feel blood boiling, but I cringe
Refusing to add to the chaos
My voice box bludgeoned by their fears
Replaced with stranger’s tears
Too long have I avoided my gaze
In the mirror showing nothing but the hardened
Unable to recognize the rot within
I stay…I pray
Until true words heal and answers free
And the rest I leave in the hands that see
Here they are again
Within me, around me
Surrounding me
Frozen—cold… unfeeling, BOLD.
He fashioned us with gold
He fashioned us with gold
Only three of us now who knew
both sets of our grandparents.
The three of us, 96, 94 and 88,
how much time have we left?
There are sepia photos from the
old, first Brownie cameras, a few
portraits of some from a bit later,
all still, silent, as they were not in life.
Being the oldest, I recall two great-
grandmothers, albeit vaguely,
one only in a darkened bedroom,
the other short, chubby, with the
horn she put to her ear to listen.
My mother’s father, Grandpa Jones,
studied his Bible lessons every day, but
he died when Dan and I were little.
Who but we three now remember the
stern but kindly mother of my dad?
Grandma Pope had endless patience
teaching my small hands to make jam,
can tomatoes, make pie crust and bread.
She had an infectious laugh which sent
tears rolling down her cheeks.
She let me go alone to
the bakery to buy penny rolls.
Grandpa Pope first showed me a keyboard
and named the keys. An accomplished
pianist and organist, who had worked
for Chickering Pianos, he didn’t play
often any more, as he had toughened his hands
in the factory where he worked during
the Depression, but when he played
everyone was completely entranced.
My mother’s mother, Grandma Jones,
was Boston proper, a wonderful seamstress
and seemingly stern, but very loving.
I often would crawl into her bed at night.
When I had mumps she made me hot chocolate.
She would be sure I had hat and gloves
and take me to lunch at Jordan Marsh.
We did endless puzzles in her sitting room.
So much more to these people than
ever can be seen in a photograph.
Even this poem only scratches the surface.
The love, quirks, personalities are missing.
I suppose, some day, my descendants
will look at pictures of Doug and me
and wonder what kind of people WE were
and what WE really were like.