Long Trice Poems
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[Continued from Part Two]
The elder took no notice of risking life and limb.
Hither, thither ran the children, glancing up at him,
while indulging mindlessly in each impulsive whim,
with no apprehension of the future looking grim.
Their chances for salvation seemed increasingly slim…
That aged man’s deep compassion filled him to the brim.
The father knew the children liked any strange device,
exotic playthings, trinkets, whatever would entice.
He needed now to improvise a mode, in a trice,
that could capture their attention— something to suffice
to hold their young imaginations— to be precise,
a mechanism marvelous, no matter the price.
He had stores of immeasurable wealth, beyond doubt,
and his warmhearted love was impartially devout.
Just then the elder had the thought that not in the least
would his limitless riches and reserves be decreased,
even if to a kingdom vast he were to dispense
his overflowing fortune… so why shouldn’t he hence
give out his wealth directly to his progeny all,
before the children’s catastrophic deaths should befall?
The aged man reflected on what tactic to pick—
an expedient means that was sure to do the trick.
He told the children of exquisite toys he possessed
along with lots of precious carts of the very best
craftsmanship and quality, that all had been designed
expressly with the youngsters’ own enjoyment in mind.
The elder next, in order to persuade them, stated
that right outside the house at the entrance awaited,
to suit the young ones’ fancies skillfully created
goat, sheep, deer, and ox carts, ornately decorated.
He said that they must rush to leave the mansion, in haste,
and he’d give them everything— there was no time to waste.
Then the children finally fulfilled his desire
and scurried in a race safely out of the fire.
The father beamed with bliss that the urgency had passed.
They had securely left the burning building at last!
When they’d exited and scampered out, they all sat down
on the dewy earth and asked their father, with a frown,
where the toys and carts were that the elder had portrayed
for their own special likings to have been tailor-made.
The youngsters had escaped and the elder’s heart was eased.
But now each one of their capricious wants must be pleased.
[Continued in Part Four]
~ Harley White
Penguin the pilchard leapt onto the ice
He flipped and he flopped and arrived in a trice
He took a deep breath and he held it and then
He bellowed with all of his might… “MEN!”
Pilchard the penguin said, “Where have you been?”
And then asked his friend, “What on Earth have you seen?”
Penguin the pilchard said, “I’m telling you,
A big boat has come with a whole TV crew.”
With all of the penguins now gathered around
Pilchard’s mum, Herring, prepared Pilchard’s ground,
“Remember the plan, we’ve done it before
For when men with cameras visit our shore.”
Pilchard the penguin said, “When they arrive,
We show them the struggle we have to survive.
Let’s huddle together then we can deliver
The image they want so let’s practice our shiver.”
A rumble, some heaving and ice cracks appeared
And up popped an orca… who nobody feared
“Okay,” he said, “so who do I chase,
and who is the stand in, you know… just in case?”
Pilchard the penguin said, “No ‘just in case’,
Nobody’s getting consumed in this place
It will be I that you shall assail
And I won’t be eaten by no killer whale.”
Seagull, the polar bear, said, “Holy cow…
Does this mean I can let my wind go now?’
Pilchard the penguin said, “Don’t let it go,
Until you’ve scraped ice up to make flakes of snow.”
The film crew arrived and they took up positions
They struggled to film the Antarctic conditions
It came as a shock that the blizzards that blew
Came with a stench that was rather like poo…
The penguins all shivered while stood in one place
While foul smelling snow pelted everyone’s face
The crew filmed the penguin as orca gave chase
And shed tears of joy when the whale lost the race
Penguin the pilchard said, “Give them some smiles,
And leap from the sea like Polaris missiles.
And then do that thing that all humans find sweet
Where young penguins stand on their mum’s and dad’s feet.”
Pilchard the penguin said, “It’s for the tele,
Won’t it look good if we slide on our belly.
You see that ice gulley, why don’t we slide through it?”
And Penguin the pilchard said, “That ought to do it.”
The crew packed their gear and they made for the shore
Where they boarded their boat and weren’t seen anymore
While back with the penguins where men were now gone
Pilchard the penguin said, “Get the fire on.”
Venice, Italy, is a crazy shamozzle of new and old
Where junk, graffiti, decay, stunning beauty,
history and culture poverty and opulence, all reside side by side, bobbing.
Water dominates the landscape, canals and waterways replace all the roads
Everything is carried by boat, food, people, garbage, produce, industrial supplies.
Ambulances, fire engines, delivery trucks and police cars are all replaced by boats.
The disorderly rusty ferries ply the waterways, jostling along with gondolas, magnificent polished wooden water taxis,
Occasionally the historic scene is ruined by modern fiber glass runabouts
with huge outboard motors completely out of place.
Next comes barges with cranes, garbage collecting boats, delivery and construction supply boats, and the many service vehicles.
Grab a table beside the canals and watch the parade of boats old and new jostle and bobble on by.
Walk through the tiny crowded streets and enjoy the kaleidoscope of people of many cultures enjoying themselves.
There are many surprises. Tiny shops with feet in large glass tanks being cleaner by fish.
Everywhere there are places to explore and things to enjoy.
Looming off in the distance you may see huge cruise liners dwarfing the buildings,
These vessels are seemingly populated by ants, as the ships are so big.
The ancient church bells in Venice chime as the ships depart arrive and depart, in homage to the new god of tourism.
The Palace art is simply overwhelming, overloading your senses.
Ancient art is everywhere and often ignored.
Venice is beautiful, but one gets the impression that all the photographs taken in Venice
are gradually sucking out the life force out of the structures, hastening their decay.
There are so many dimensions and experiences, places to explore that you never get tired of Venice.
The more times you visit the better you will like it and the more you will find to do and see.
You have to laugh and ignore the hassles, the jostling crowds, the regimented crowded ferry system,
the pushing and shoving of the crowds in the tiny streets,
simply laugh and have fun.
Venice is crazy, nice, with diverse multi-faceted attractions and lots of things to do.
You will love it!
Venice Trice is Nice.
The Truth And Blessing Of Love At First Sight
( A Collaboration with Sandra Adams )
( Rhyme And Free Verse, melded together )
My first recall, is your beautiful hair
walking, elegance in grace you exude,
breathing sexy words to you, none were crude
loving words, could not show depths of my care.
I remember your unsteady glance
as I peered through the edges
of my windswept bangs
your words whispered
softly through dusk's breath
...even the horizon blushed
My lips, painted
temporarily parting
in the trice of a gleam
hid my sadness
momentarily
as your smile
allured the depths
of my sorrowful heart
Your smile, did this eager soul truly bless
as soothing vibes, found sad heart to invade,
my thought was, may this feeling never fade
forever yours, pure truth I did confess.
Love, those words, born of romantic fever
are as blossoms falling in gentle wind,
within that sweet image, time has no end
at first sight, I became a believer.
I was but a wilted flower
in a field of many
struggling to stand
barely visible
yet you noticed
and nourished me
Your laugh at my words, being on a dare
friend said, such a beauty- you have no chance
king or prince, but not you, never romance
then our kiss, showed him, a loving pair.
I remember his scorn
like a thorn, it pierced
the edges of fate
yet unsure
you still gambled
your heart
at stake
beneath
a kiss
10/13/2019
Robert J. Lindley and Sandra Adams
a new collaboration... Rhyme and free verse...
Note-
My dear friend Sandra, I am both humbled and so very appreciative that
you agreed to write this new collaboration with me. As I knew well,
that your verses would sing out the beautiful lady's thoughts and replies
to her former lover and his sweet and sadly truthful memories of their time
together as very young lovers. With full account given of both the good and
the bad in life, just as we all know is often a sad reality... Our combination of his memories written in rhyme and her free verse replies represents the two graceful but very different natures of the former youthful lovers!
Again, you have my heartfelt thanks.. God bless...
Written: November 17, 2023
That best portion of a man's life, his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love. By William Wordsworth
_____________________________________________
If just there were a lexis from which to choose.
A magic word to silence the clock in the room.
To turn on lights for just a while and let loose.
Unplug the gloom and watch your face bloom.
A magic word to silence the clock in the room
In my mind, I retain loads of nameless rhymes.
Unplug the gloom and watch your face bloom.
Dreams primed my heart wrapped in those times.
In my mind, I retain loads of nameless rhymes.
By arguing, as if you're the only thing I can say.
Dreams primed my heart wrapped in those times.
However, they can't be spoken to or buried away.
By arguing, as if you're the only thing I can say.
They can't, as they secern the effects and price.
However, they can't be spoken to or buried away.
So I garden, sifting through my memory trice.
They can't, as they secern the effects and price.
Light in the grass, craving the white gull cry.
So I garden, sifting through my memory trice.
In passing, geese waveringly cross the sky.
Light in the grass, craving the white gull cry.
I watch, and it sleeps in solitude, with no name.
In passing, geese waveringly cross the sky.
Life of light seems to scorch anything as a flame.
I watch, and it sleeps in solitude, with no name.
Raised hare on a slope with long, clear ears.
Life of light seems to scorch anything as a flame.
Learn a timeless tune as trees quiver in years.
Raised hare on a slope with long, clear ears.
Avian species exude it and don't need to learn.
Learn a timeless tune as trees quiver in years.
Serve us with no words, and seek none in return.
Avian species exude it and don't need to learn.
To turn on lights for just a while and let loose.
Serve us with no words, and seek none in return.
If just there were a lexis from which to choose.
Continued from Part 1
The trees, they hang in time and space around me –
trees, which in time before had swayed,
so gently tugged by ocean breezes,
trees, which in time before were lightly lit
with emerald tinted leaves,
trees, which in time before had reached to space above
with twisted tangled fingers,
grasping fingers,
fingers drenched with golden tears
shed by the Mighty Eye.
The trees, they hang in space and time,
benumbed and frozen motionless around me
chilled with rooted premonitions of the void,
their branches clutching darkness
and their leaves foreboding doom.
The muted winds begin to whisper tales
of many frightened things,
which, with mournful apprehension
have hunkered down behind the haze
and ceased their joyful play.
And all the while dank shadows gaily dance
a dismal dance,
for their time is soon to come.
The fitful shore lies suddenly still.
Unfeeling stones and hollow shells,
are paused a little,
stalled,
and dropped haphazardly,
midst their mindless random journey,
now abandoned by the sea,
for fickle waves have slipped away
to greet a falling prey.
And as the Mighty Eye droops lower,
laminated molten lips
are pursed and pucker higher,
sucking in the sky.
Within a trice the Mighty Eye
submits and squints, distended red,
perhaps tormented by fantastic thoughts
of imminent demise,
or else of being lashed beneath a lid
of distant faithless waves.
And as her dying flash dissolves,
two lurid lips arise,
three lusty lips -
a thousand parted limpid lips
which asudden,
though with little haste,
consume the Mighty Eye.
EPILOGUE
The trees are now but lurking shades
amongst the murky shadows.
Relentless fog slips slowly by -
her floating tongues drip silence
as they slink like snakes in stealth nearby.
The lacerated faithless lips have once again returned
to kiss the vacant vapid shores
in a brief eclipse of time.
END
Form:
SHE IS A SINGER
THAT YOU LACK
THE INTELLGENCE OF KNOWING!
WHO IS THIS, HE SAID: SPEAKING
OF THE PERSON
WHO HAS BEEN CALLING
EACH DAY. tHAN THE VOICE SAID
"I WILL TELL YOU WHAT
YOU NEED TO KNOW",
HE SLAMMED THE PHONE DOWN
BEFORE SAYING" WRONG NUMBER."
WHO WAS THAT ASKED HIS WIFE, YOU KNOW
THOSE GUYS CALL HERE PLAYING ON
THE PHONE, I GUESS THEY WERE FREINDS
OF MERISU.YEAH I GUESS THEY
WERE FREINDS OF MERISU, SHE HAD AN
OBOE DIDN'T SHE HE ASKED, HIS WIFE
ANWSERING, YES AND A DRUMSET
AND A COUPLE OTHER INSTRUMENTS
THE GUY ON THE PHOONE SAID
SOMETHING ABOUT KNOWING THE TRUTH
IT SAID THESE THINGS
LA FEMME PORTE DU ROUGE
LES APPLAUDISSEMENTS EST DEVENU PLUS FORT
IL SE RAIT QU'IL ALLAIT
MAUDIRE ALORS IL A COMMENCE A MAUDIRE
SA MERE A DIT QUE 'IL MAUDISSANT LE DIABLE
L'EMMENERAIT EN ENFER
BATON DE LEVRE SUR SES
TIROIRS SOYEUX BLANCS
JE SUIS UN CHAT DE TANDIS QUE
JAMBON ACTE DE MAIGRE
J'AI CRU ENTRENDRE TON FILS
ON POUT SE MARIER
MAINTENANT ?
SA FEMME LVI LANCE
DES OEUFS... ELLE EST EN COLERE IL A TRICHE
QUI EST LE ROUGE A LEVRES
ROSE PRTANT FEMME?
AND FINDING OUT WHAT'S GOING ON
I HEARD THAT MERISU WAS IN FRANCE
ON TOUR WITH DELGRIN'S NEICE
TRICE AND MR. GELTRIFE, WELL ONE OF THOSE
CLOWNS MIGHT BE PLAYING ON THE PHONE.
CALL MERISU, AND TELL HER
I'VE BEEN RECORDING SOME STRANGE
FREAK, SOMEONE SHE PROBABLY DATED
AND HE'S BEEN FOOL ENEOUGH TO
BELEIVE HER LIES,
AND WE BELEIVE THIS
DICKLICKER IS PLAYING
ON OUR PHONE,
AND WE'VE BEEN RECORDING
THE WHOLE THING, AND
WE ARE GONNA PAWN
THE INSTRUMENTS IN THE
CELLER AND PAY SOME ONE
TO PUT THIS FREAK'S WORDS
TO MUSIC, AND THEN
WE ARE GONNA PUT
IT ON THE RADIO.
Fall is getting prompt for its chilly main part.
Spread each leaf until the forest floor is strewn.
Joined by bright leaves waving to the summer's past.
Differing old layouts, and not a trice too soon!
Spread each leaf until the forest floor is strewn.
And the heron shriek out above the clear blue air
Differing old layouts, and not a trice too soon!
While the white clouds emerge to shout "beware!"
And the heron shriek out above the clear blue air
The swollen creek has no time to fade away.
While the white clouds emerge to shout "beware!"
The Fall charm waits for our parent's offer lay.
The swollen creek has no time to fade away.
A woodpecker beats on a tree searching food.
The Fall charm waits for our parent's offer lay.
Mixed together, they make for a timing, good.
A woodpecker beats on a tree searching food.
A parade of old thoughts walks within new sense.
Mixed together, they make for a timing, good.
And nothing is lost when the mood is intense!
A woodpecker beats on a tree searching food.
A parade of old thoughts walks within new sense.
Mixed together, they make for a timing, good.
And nothing is lost when the mood is intense!
A parade of old thoughts walks within new sense.
My heart is racing as I latch on to beat.
And nothing is lost when the mood is intense!
The kernel of Autumn's singing is so sweet.
My heart is racing as I latch on to beat.
Joined by bright leaves waving to the summer's past.
The kernel of Autumn's singing is so sweet.
Fall is getting prompt for its chilly main part.
Written: September 02, 2022
Autumn Pantoum Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Caren Krutsinger
Have you ever wondered why everything happens so fast?
It astounds me
- How we run to places we do not know
- How we run to beat time even before we know how to read the hands of the clock
- How we run after things that never leave their spots
Like the way the world runs after the sun which scientists say is stationary
& yet we always find it lingering ahead
It does leave me jaw dropped
- Why our shadows run into us when light falls on them
(How did light become a thing of fear?)
- Why love comes in drops but leaves running
- Why our hearts begin to run when we meet someone we have crush on
(Isn't love suppose to be solace?)
- Why the night runs only the moment we fall asleep
A boy dreamt of those nights he would become stars
He began to drown in the illusions until he slowly
Realised the drops of dawn had grown into an ocean
He would never be soaked by the rain of yesteryears
So he sprang off bed, got set for school and ran into the streets
He crossed the road running in haste and a truck driver ran over him
We watched as he curled around his own stuff
We watched as women carried their hands on their head which seemed too heavy as they bent at intervals
We watched as his blood and ghost wandered around the road running and bending aound every corner
Unsure about how they became homeless in a trice
We watched how his mother ran to the scene too
How words came running from her mouth that we hardly heard her
We watched how the moment faded away and the world returned to it's race
Now you may want to read this poem again convinced that nothing is chasing you because you'd earlier read
Running down the lines.
Written: September 15, 2023
______________________________________________________________
In the halter of destiny, we are all bound.
A monody of souls dissemble and found
With every lynch of trice vicious hand,
We quest to the ossuary of the apex land.
Yet in this hoedown of life and death,
We descry trices to canonize our breath.
In the equidistant cuddle, we share,
We ascertain solace in the clad of despair.
Through brittle nights and rallying days,
We quest to unfetter from the maze.
Omega awaits to clarify our fate.
Ablaze of stinging anguish, we can't abate.
Inanimate entities, ephemeral, and plain,
As a ripple of anguish sways, weep in pain
Aside from that, the cosmic harbinger sky
Espies our destruction with a silent sigh.
An epidemic of metempsychosis,
We inherit the legacy of pestilence psychosis.
On hiemal days and hibernal nights,
We bear the stature of sorrow's bite.
In every epoch of fugacity,
We quest for repeal—a wink of clarity.
Bequeath and madness, we strive to overcome
Nocuous menace to switch what we've become.
We often embellish it as life is so anxious.
Our roots still hold the pinnacle to progress.
Decisiveness, anguish, and an urge to revoke.
Lead exposure us to a nonlethal stroke.
The dance of life and death is an exquisite art.
Delight and anguish entwine—never apart.
At the pinnacle of this poetic tale,
We ascertain that life's heirloom prevails.
Though pestilence and grief endeavor to bind,
We have the incite to bequeath them all behind.
So let us dance, with hearts bridled high.
Embracing the madness as we reach for the sky