Long Troughs Poems
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I once saw a Highland stag.
It was magnificent.
We looked at each other for some time.
I felt no love for it,
it also was free of such bonds.
Eventually it moved away
disappearing behind a ridge,
strange, but then I felt love –
I missed it.
So it is with those
who have appeared and disappeared
over the strung-out years.
Many went away
then came back as ghosts -
not dead, but ghosts, nevertheless.
but if I really missed them
they went away.
This word ‘love,’
maybe I am misinterpreting it,
I know I have been misled often
by the appearance
of words, names and images,
by the felt wave, its crests and troughs.
there is something much better
behind all those waves,
something worth drowning in.
Once again I recall the stag,
how only after it’s disappearance,
did I love it.
Adrift
upon the vagaries of life.
I have sailed this sea
prayed for a hint of breeze
a whisper of hope
a passing cloud’s shadow
run through the troughs
of crested confusion
withstood the fury
of its nameless demons.
Sailed –
toward an unreachable sunset
growing ever nearer
run full sail at sunrise
fleeing the darkness
sat - becalmed
deafened by the silence
shouted into the emptiness
of doubt.
Mended
tattered canvas,
caulked with dusty rope
aging cracks of voyage
tarred and oiled
split and cracking masts
held pains polished
rudder wheel.
Set sail
into the darkened sky
seeking passage
through the jagged rips
for storms will rage
a failing fury spent
as sailors sail
into a future’s end.
John G. Lawless
10/8/2015
The migratory mind
indomitable,
of the spirited surfer
possessed,
waltzes on waves of life,
curled crests climb
demented,
fling the fractured moon,
dark troughs descend
despondent,
with sequins of sunk stars,
recede with the ebb of time,
seek the seraphic shore
of the passionate past,
entranced.
The shifting sands
sculpt seaward footprints,
contoured as the corroded
design of decay,
time arrow finds
the designated course
destined,
to the temporal topography
denuded at the edge
of the fading timeline,
framing flaked facsimile
of eroded existential wasteland
abandoned,
where emptiness engulfs
enthused,
the splintered spectrum
of the sanguinity rainbow,
crumbled.
The disillusion-tangled terrain
within hollowness deep
piles up the wreckage
of languished lilt of life
unlived,
turns the chromatic garden
to debris dump
in the winter of discontent
invasive,
the pathway paved
outside its frail fence
waits to be walked
fascinated,
to the mesmeric meadow
of turquoise tomorrow,
waiting.
Innate invention intuition
permeates perceptive memory
innovative,
with arcane acumen,
the art of alchemy
enigmatic,
glitters gold
in the rusted crust of ruins
where marigold blooms
in the junkyard
on the scrap stack
of the bleak being,
with the transforming touch
of the Midas mind,
masked.
Helios, open darkened shutters Night did seal;
Nyx's opaque, drawn shades one by one peel.
With prehensile fingers grip your enlightened quill,
Selene's pale orb with luminescent lines reel.
With gilded parasol twirl your flaming wheel,
Until enjoined sparks into tinted rays congeal.
In saffron waves, blanch horizon's, window seal.
On spindled beam, spin golden threads from creel,
Sheaves of golden flax span o'er ethereal hill.
Branching, with sonic beam pearly plains drill,
Until azure streams deep reservoir does fill.
With torch, burnt-orange meringue on puffy clouds spill,
then into earth's grainy purview with vigor steal.
With tempera, egg wash the Sky's blank stencil,
then with magnified lens illumine the scenic still.
Plunging downward, into denser troughs truncated waves swill.
Onto earth's jade footstool, solemnly kneel,
Drawing from vassal's, residual til.
Amber blades with brighter finish instill,
With waxy gloss the folio cover frill.
Where to now, uncharted waters,
Two men vying, two men scheming,
Biden gloating, Trump now reeling,
Storm clouds gathering, eyes aloft.
So much anger, consternation,
A million words spewed every day,
Talking heads intent to sway,
Incessant noise drowning our senses.
Gone all reason, truth abated,
Daggers drawn, no time to ponder,
Where is grace, we're left to wonder,
Faint the beacon that shone so bright,
No aim but personal agendas,
Winning the game, no regard to cost,
So much broken, so much lost,
Legacies destroyed, a worthy prize?
Is there hope, slithers of light,
Where discourse and civility prevail,
Or just a forlorn dream, to no avail,
With troughs too deep, waves too rough.
Yet storms pass, the sun burns through,
Foreboding clouds soon dissipate,
Destructive winds gradually abate,
The dawn of hope a promise fresh.
America was born of freedom,
A welcome port, a haven sure,
Ideals the core, intentions pure,
Democracy the linchpin, autocracy despised.
So with heavy heart we bear,
This foisted moment of division,
Holding steadfast for our vision
Of one country united in a dream.
I knew my ancestry and my dad was a joiner,
But verged on disowning my mum for labour,
Not married in history yet throbbing with spark,
Love, truth, kindness fibered the gelled dark.
A stunner - intelligent, muscular but sensitive,
The royal in me saw the people as plaintiff,
As steering the vile lark of determining troughs,
In a grass-roots democracy to nullify the toffs.
Prolific at speeches, education never lacked,
Peeking as child into the ear in discern I jacked,
I knew nothing was unproven, cleanliness won,
Joules inside quenched the human sown son.
In the health profession I beamed, overcame, won,
Differences waged exacted to desecrate the sum -
Poor, minority, stealthy and dragon ignored asunder,
No equality known to hook the solid, base shelter.
Mobile, but wherever I tread met haters and lovers,
Pranced about suckered by vulgar ruling bearers;
Taught children life and followers’ carers’ quick,
Stead ahead hailed by the people as their wick.
Freedom held my blink until shown as the trait -
Real by weight for the sick to crop myself as bait.
Therefore human aim, space, time shouted ball,
‘Cos the individual is right, by the pinnacle, wall.
My twelve friends accepted my way and my mind,
Chose to love crook, crank or by altruism behind,
Meant rear - banned and ashore, but fully sentient,
No restorative, candid deeds to strike ambivalent.
People glued came to see me - the Nile drawn,
Dealt troubles without ways n’ routes to spawn;
Yet state and common folks both, themselves,
Killed me for a movement shooting with shelves.
But those many who loved me would never forget,
Forged sail by the integral identity never truly set:
They said afterwards that my substance, way, holds,
It’s life that affords me, not the shined, bold folds.
There was a court case and everything, a slot,
When they asked if I was a god, king, mad, a shot:
Dumb. Bitter I’d gone and cut short, they said I’d live,
Within them in their memory as the cultural give.
My existence is not a point - your location, for always:
It’s not belief in me that matters but it's your sways;
Your life is important and it's your existence that calls,
MLK, Lincoln, Walker ball for the sentient, rugged stalls.
Who am I?
Amram is a Levite;
He takes a Levite wife.
They have a little boy;
A tyrant king seeks his
And every young boy’s life.
When he is three months old,
And can be hid no more,
His mother makes an ark
of rushes.
With bitumen, pitch,
the ark,
she waterproofs,
she brushes.
She sets it out upon the water;
It comes to rest
within the reeds
There, at the edge of the river,
The tyrant king’s young daughter
sees his need.
And so she pulls him out,
The tyrant king’s young daughter.
She names him Moses,
“Because,” she says,
“I drew him from the water.”
The priest of Midian
Has seven lovely daughters.
They care for their sheep;
They come to draw water,
Filling the troughs
For their father’s flocks.
The shepherds come
To drive them away,
But the Egyptian, they suppose,
Stands up
And saves them,
And waters their flocks,
And with them stays.
Their father says,
“Why are you home so soon?”
“An Egyptian delivered us
Out of the hands
Of the shepherds,
Drew water for us,
And watered the flock,
And stayed with us.”
And so Moses stays with them.
And Jethro gives his daughter’s hand.
And Zipporah gives him a son, Gershom
“for I have been
a sojourner in a foreign land.”
And Moses becomes a shepherd,
Tending his father-in-law’s flocks.
And now, the shepherd delivers the flock
Out of the hands
Of the Egyptian tyrant king,
Draws them out,
Israel’s sons and daughters
Through the Reed Sea’s waters.
In the wilderness,
He waters the flock.
I watched three birds of mine take flight
One right after the other
Each following a different path
Although their upbringings were much the same
They tested their wings in flight
While living in the nest with me
Sometimes imitating
Sometimes contrarian
But always looking for some form of approval ~
I hope I did not disappoint them too much
Although, free they fly
To heights and troughs they themselves maneuver
I continually try to provide wind underneath their wings
When needed
And when willing to accept
Sometimes having difficulty recognizing either
Proudly I watch them fly
Watch directions change on a whim
Watch them remake the same mistakes as I
Watch them achieve greater heights than I could ever achieve
Now they make nests of their own
And the cycle starts anew
I hope their skies are as bright for them
And the flight of their offspring just as thrilling
I am getting tired of the tidal waves
That bring me to shore,
Spit me out and drag me in once more.
I am tired of the crest dropping
And the trough getting deeper,
While the pain in life gets steeper.
I am not always under,
But I haven’t learned to surf the top.
Arriving at the trough and wondering
When the pain is going to just stop.
I am tired of the drama that sets the waves into motion
And I wish that the voices in my head would stop their commotion.
The crest of the waves are moments,
But the troughs are drawn out loud and long,
The crest might spit positive emotion
While the tough brings a tearful drowning song.
The reason that she didn’t come to my last poetry reading
Was that I had but faintly praised her hat.
It was a monstrous thing which Mrs. Thatcher,
the Queen most certainly, would have shunned.
It was sort of like a jerry-built bird’s nest
Jammed full of something like seaweed,
Yes, like something straight out of a horror film, a “thing.”
My “Er, yuss, rather .. er .. interesting”
Evidently was not good enough.
She stamped her foot,
Picked up her cocktail
And left her corner – in a huff.
My hat! How petty can you get?
Perhaps my not getting too smitten by her hat and all
Had something to do with the fact
That that snooty husband of hers
Never acknowledges me when we meet.
The most joy I can get from him
Is a barely audible grunt.
I’m not petty, just very sensitive.
Quite different.
Maybe I’m just growing cynical. As I see it,
Most ordinary run-of-the-mill individuals
Can’t forgive a slight
More than just once or twice,
Let alone seventy times seventy times,
Like your true saint actually might.
Most folks keep accounts.
Come off it. You know they do,
Of course, they do,
Or a points system,
Except true friends.
But even there
I have my doubts.
True, friends like friendly bank managers
Wouldn’t dream of mentioning your overdraft.
No, they will lean over backwards
To extend generous terms of credit.
There are such things as
Interest-free loans, write-offs,
Grants and gratuities, but
Not even the IMF has limitless funds.
Only the most officious bank clerk
Actually likes bouncing checks,
Allowing no time lag between tit and tat.
But in the longer term
A balance sheet is drawn,
And even a benign auditor
Must draw a line somewhere
Between the troughs and peaks.