Long Troublesome Poems
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A rebellious, curious child
with a propensity for mischief:
I was always running away.
No halo ever crowned my head:
I was troublesome and argumentative!
I'd skip school at least twice a week,
earning me repeated beatings:
but I didn't care!
I felt shackled to restrictive rules
by a suppressive chain that I did my best to break:
constantly testing its weakest link.
And, I did not bend to conformity:
nor blend into the night like a shadow.
Instead, I was a blaze of blinding light:
that I didn't hide under a bushel.
I may have been born helpless:
but I was no lamb,
to be led by a flock mentality.
Society's shepherds branded me
a black sheep, a reprobate, a rogue,
and a scoundrel.
And because I flew outside their radar:
they tried to standardize
and compartmentalize me:
but I'd have none of it.
No one has the right to subjugate or judge me:
I answer only to myself, my God,
and my conscience.
Bessie had many children
Twelve to be exact
All grown up and gone now
Leaving only Bessie, husband Bert and Bella the cat
With childbirth and ageing
Bessie’s breasticles had paid the price
Gravity had taken its toll
Her breasticles now touched the ground ….that not being terribly nice!
Bra’s no longer held them in
They just fell out and dropped to the floor
Bessie was fed up and helpless
She couldn’t take it anymore
The problem was her breasticles were constantly on the ground
So going out was such a troublesome task
“You are standing on my breasticles “ she would tell people
“ Can you please get off them ” she would politely ask
One very busy day Bessie was at the end of her tether
She was flustered, frustrated and so very hot
She grabbed and heaved up her breasticles
And tied them in a double knot!
My Mamma cried
When she'd heard what I'd done
My Daddy went back inside
And he grabbed his gun
I'd met a girl on the other side of town
Of course I am white and of course she is brown
I don't rightly care cause we're both in love
And I ain't gonna let her suffer none
We's from Birmingham
Down South Alabama you see
If'in you must know the year
I'd say a shameful 1963
There was unrest amongst the people
Which was bad enough
But it was doubly troublesome
On our taboo love
Deep segregation kept our worlds apart
Something the youth of the day couldn't see
Outside color don't matter, it's what's in the heart
That's the hold she has over me
Not really sure things have changed all that much
Though it's our nature to want to pretend
I'm not much into caring what others might think
Sometimes you gotta stand up like a man
I'm telling this tale from my front porch swing
As I listen to my Grandchildren's playful screams
While holding hands rocking back and forth
My lovely brown skinned beauty and me
Give Or Take
Miracle Man
8/22/2024
Our country is fast becoming,
morally laid in waste.
Many embrace this change,
while others feel abased.
Nefarious people are making,
troublesome news each day.
We no longer view our laws,
being black and white, but gray.
Our Government has now become,
like a humongous money tree.
Illegals are treated far better,
with a stipend they live rent free.
Looting and killing is rampant,
with protesters voicing their views.
With covered faces, they burn our flag,
in protest toward ourselves and Jews.
“The wheel that squeaks the loudest,
always gets the grease.”
Prentice Haines was the son of wealth,
the youngest of a brood of nine.
At sixteen he fled from Boston town
for the rugged life of western climes,
trapping fur took up his time.
Before a year passed he’d married a squaw,
his wife in fact, if not in law.
A daughter came quick, he named her Nell,
Bbt fate followed with darkness in store.
His wife Feathered Dove died of a fever
a year after sweet Nell was born,
but Prent had little time to mourn.
His daughter knew not that her ma was gone,
so Prent lived for her, Prent soldiered on.
Three years passed swiftly, one sunny noon
Pent and Nell walked into Sally’s case.
She gave them a smile, she always did,
then with sweet Nell did she play.
Sally was always in a happy way.
For four years since her husband died
she’d been running this place and getting by.
While Nell ran about, Prent said to Sal:
“I’m thinking of heading back east.
Time to think about schooling for Nell,
someone who womanly manners can teach.
And I suppose a new wife I should seek.”
Sally, she smiled, teeth white as pearls,
Aad said,”Not just in Boston can you find a girl.”
But Prent didn’t hear her, so lost in his mind,
Saying,”Yep, I think she will need a good school.
Being a half-breed will be troublesome enough,
can’t let her grow up just another fool.
Can’t fall short by my little jewel.
But Sally take my thanks, before I go,
for watching over her, while I trapped in the snow.”
She smiled sadly at that, then she explained:
“Watching Nelly was truly a pleasure.
She’s a wonderful girl, and I see clearly
why her father calls her his treasure.”
She bade them both good-bye forever.
At the station next day, early came
the long, hissing snake that was their train.
Across half the continent they went,
sweet Nell’s face glued to the window,
seeing prairie, farm, hills, and town
Aa along the tracks they’d go.
For Nell it really was quite a show.
And finally, the chugging train pulled on in,
blowing its great whistle at Boston’s station.
Prent knocked on the door to his parent’s house,
waiting until he heard some footsteps.
The door swung open, revealing the maid
so shocked that she looked pale as death.
She called out the name ‘Annabeth.’
A minute went by and his sister appeared,
oldest of the Haines children in years...
CONTINUES IN PART II.
06/11
My roommate says that I am a bull
My spirit animal, my innermost essence
More like an ox that pulls a wagon, he says
But a bit like a toro as well
I hadn’t thought about it much
But I see things his way more and more
He thinks so much about everything
Deeply. Quietly. Like a raven
And she, I think, is a bluebird
Fluttering here to there
Resting only moments
Before stirring back to flight
How strange that she rests on the swell of his back
And stays slow beside him
Flying ahead and then circling back
Flying behind and catching back up
The bluebird knows it in her soul
A migratory instinct
A fixed needle on her compass rose
And will fly there without turning home
The bull draws furrows, steady and sure
Between the green pickets at the edge of his field
He knows every rock and each troublesome hole
And satisfied sighs at each turn of the plow
Along this last southward stretch
A bluebird landed on the fence
And she’s fluttered with the bull from post to post
But quick comes the turnabout and where will she go?
She won’t be turned to the East or the West
And that twinkling reflection she brought to his eye
Will dwindle so quickly once he turns aside
So the bull’s become bridled by this tiny blue bird
I am a bull at my best and my worst
My eyes set so stubbornly on each next thing
I’ve now set my eyes on this bluebird
And would march on beneath her for her to rest again on my back
But no
I cannot fly, try as I might, and you will not plow
Here it seems we’ve made the turn
The yoke of the plow will rest heavier now
It's fearful to think
that your last moment has come,
and like a pen out of ink...
it stops when a word needs to rhyme.
Keep off the edge at any cost, death waits avidly
for another victim to be added to its toll...
go the opposite direction where you find a wall
to avert another possible tragedy.
Desperation plays a major part in awful thoughts,
hope is found in faith: read all Proverbs and be saved by their soothing words;
ignoring wisdom is to live foolishly and recklessly as thugs...
why live a wretched life and hate others? Why keep on sharpening your swords?
I have never gripped on rocks to reach that edge of despair,
even though death seemed real and allowed no escape,
but with will and determination I was able to annihilate
those evil forces coming out of demons who had no love to share.
Why be unappreciative, troublesome, worrisome and uneasy...
when life can lead one to victory as it has led many in History?
Commit an evil act, and you'll suffer more than Cain...
embrace love and your fear will never drive you insane.
Entered in Linda-Marie's contest,
" Life and Death...And Beyond..."
Written by Andrew Crisci
To exist with a purpose is so worthwhile,
and awaiting the unknown day we expire,
many amazing things we must accomplish:
praising love and creation as saints teach.
Has anyone ever realized how slow time really is...
when the thought of eternity is sublime?
Let's not forget how we lived our troublesome days,
and despite hardships, He stood by our side.
As the days of Noah were, so are these indeed,
and where would the obedient ones go without a lead?
Build another ark to escape the meanness and violence of men,
when the God of Israel promised not to flood the Earth again?
We must not lose heart when confronting their foolish pride...
by believing that the thought of eternity is sublime!
The ALGORITHM had its day
Causing mass confusion, disgust with foul play
The day a waste of time unless generously used
As an activist for social change much more amused
The algorithm has its weekly picks
Causing alarm to its own members politics
Pausing are moments of awareness of harm
Losing its confidence and poetry charm
Enabling cruelty upon its own community
Does not readily afford cavalier immunity
The buzzing annoyance is seen only weekly when
For a poem’s brilliance earning them an honor chosen
Not sympatico to spare any feelings
On the contrary these are dirty dealings
Unshared is what has been tossed in the soup
Manipulation meant for unsuspecting, driven by a coup
A group of troublesome lifers who cawk and complain
Hurtful and shameless with nothing more to give or gain
It’s they who buzz around the clock in the broth bowl
Denial of words mirrored and who love-on as the troll
It’s what keeps them afloat and this for not long
Theirs's a sinking ship—prolonged
Let not the poet’s freedom of speech this be of
‘What’ the poetry site is willing to preach hereof
Not a good look
A possible hook?
Keep the sagas flowing
Fueling of hatred showing
Bringing to the spotlight what he/she dictates
Hiding ‘hind algorithms inhabited by humanoid hate
A poetry site's admin throws itself into the mix
Whether it be a lesson Or just for kicks
It shows mistrust, question, and doubt
Really this what it be, about
By its accidental-exacting choice
This reality is the true voice
Marigolds dazzle along the edge of the walk
Leading to daffodils that preen, laugh and mock.
I say “Ladies, let’s greet the monarchs nicely.”
All blossoms beautiful, ruffled precisely.
A small garter snake, but he’s not in the way.
I step around neatly, wishing him a good day.
Butterflies arrive a few seconds after seven.
I know they are sent by gardening angels from heaven.
I do a bit of weeding, pulling up troublesome vines.
Garden falls into a pretty pattern, rows in straight lines.
Little buds of carrots and tiny shoots of peas too
Push up the soil, sharing growth against the due.
I am happy as I fix my garden up tidy and neatly.
She gives me flowers, and soon will give me vegetables sweetly.
My children think that everyone in the world has a garden fine.
And they know I will do my best to keep mine in a straight line.