Long Tugged Poems
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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:
He sat on top of the crimson hill
Looking, staring,
Asking why?
Tears fell on blades of grass
Like, drops from a bleeding heart
He tugged at his torn jeans
Reached deep in his pocket
Looked at the photo
Asking why?
Heartbroken, blurred vision,
He stood, then stumbled
On what felt like shaky ground
Wind snapped branches
A storm was brewing
He stayed there anyway
Now, drenched in rain
Feeling tattered and torn,
He looked down
Said, “I love you, forever”
To the grave in the ground
When the dark clouds parted,
He stood in the light…
Suddenly, felt a warm embrace
A miraculous smile emerged
He swore he saw her beside him that night!
8/23/19
Entry for the Wow Me Poetry Contest. Sponsor: Nina Parmenter
Does the feasting of a little cat make a tiger strong?
Does the fasting of a tiger make a plump kitten weak?
Is fasting a righteous rite? Is feasting morally wrong?
Isn't the cleanliness of the heart something one should seek?
Jesus feasted with people and fasted in quietude.
He viewed each being, with a spectacle of optimism.
Pharisees did vice versa, with a cynical attitude.
They were not philanthropic. Their tap root was dogmatism.
We fast, Johanians do too, they trumpeted. Why don't you?
Self-righteousness, like Banyan roots, had deeply tugged at them.
Jesus brought a wedding scene before their distorted view.
Do guests of the wedding fast when the groom is at his helm?
Why patch old cloaks with new ones and fill old skins with new wine?
With new canvas, paint, and brush, why don't we make new design?
Surrounded by the Bay of Conception
Bell Island anchored for miles perception
Deep deep under the mine that was drudged
Remnants of rail blind horses that tugged
Not the mainland but off Canada's shore
The iron ore mines that are no more
Deep in the ground of old Newfoundland
To far the ore that made it grand
No longer the mine that prosperity gave
But a wondrous long mysterious cave
The pumps are off the water it fills
Divers around go diving for thrills
With caution it's done for there is a list
Many dead miners it does exist
Even though the mine is gone
I've heard some divers have move on
Now some would say there is a ghost
It might be fearful scary to most
Maybe some spirit or even a fairy
This one could be an old Canterbury
None the less men will explore
That is how we got the ore
So once again you go down under
Miles of caves and all its wonder
Fulfill your quest a bucket list
Check it off and dive the mist
Follow the rope and stay the course
Find the shoe of the old black horse
Search you will with flipper and light
To plunder a relic you'll feel the smite
Of an old ghost miner with pick and shovel
He'll take it back that item you smuggle
So resist the urge to pillage and plunder
We can't get out from so far under
Take our tools you'll leave us bare
So put them down or else beware
Of the old ghost miners protecting this place
We once lived and ran life's race
We are no more to cross the Bay
Make the ferry at the end of the day
He sat on the pathway edge,
crossed legged at the feet.
Donned in green moleskin trousers and yellow oilskin, felt pork pie hat and tilting back from the band a pheasant feather,
multicoloured,
catching the sporadic sunlight.
Thin lipped and with a smile that exposed teeth so uniform that if he had done a handstand you would swear the mouth had not moved.
I imagined the canines and molars worn to evenness by the gnawing of rope and net whilst Captaining trawlers that endured weeks at sea, but more likely a University lecturer, Geography teacher.
Like Shearer at the Gallowgate end I held my arm aloft exposing the too tightly pulled wristband allowing entry to the festivities.
Heartily and simultaneously with him “Morning” and his smile extended further.
Drinks were ordered and it was several minutes before I became aware of my inappropriate footwear as wood chippings bit my toes.
Forgetfulness was becoming an ever increasing trait.
Oofos flip flops were not going to cut it.
A Met Office amber warning, dancing and the threat of a drifting mosh pit required a sturdier approach and a journey back out.
“So soon?” he asked ruefully.
I pointed to the uncovered feet, his brow concertinaed, he stood, smaller than expected, deceived by his outstretched legs.
Arms raised, fully extended, he planted his hands upon my shoulders and with quiet authority
“When your Father told you that things would get easier, that you hadn’t to worry, that you will get wiser. You didn’t listen did you?”
He bellowed and I joined him.
He sent me away.
Uplifted.
When I returned he had been replaced, voluntary shift complete. Sat in his place a young man, a boy barely eighteen I guessed.
I left my arm by its side and tugged at the sleeve, we nodded.
Later that day I spied the man, sat on a tree trunk bench.
Pork pie hat with pheasant feather, crossed legged at the feet but held to his thin lips, a dark beer, a mild, a stout or a porter.
Undoubtedly a Geography teacher.
The busy Moon forgot about the Tide.
She left it out all day upon the sand.
And when it found itself alone topside,
there mischief was immediately at hand.
It washed the muddy Rocks until they shone,
then dragged in trash to mess them up again,
it chilled the chubby babies to the bone
and tugged their pudgy feet to pull them in.
It rearranged the peaceful ocean floor
and wrapped the kelp into a tangled wreath,
then turned up all the driftwood on the shore
and tickled every creature underneath.
It tricked the Fishermen it came across
by pulling at the lines they'd cast about,
took cages that it saw the Trappers toss
and let the little Crabs and Lobsters out.
It fooled with every Fish that floated by,
it sprayed the Seagulls when they flew too near,
it pooled in spots it KNEW the Sun liked dry
and played with all the boats along the pier.
It sueezed the baby Squid until they laughed
then painted funny pictures with their ink
and after it had taught them all this craft,
it swirled away like water down a sink.
It called to Clouds that hung around the sky
and asked to meet them halfway in between
then teased them until they began to cry
but just to make it rain, not to be mean...
The Tide adored its mischief and it would
have gleefully continued on its spree
but for the Moon, who for the greater good,
came up at last and let it out to sea!
Pushed by a momentum,
Thrust up by a force,
Might and power dominate,
Naught can change its course.
Heaved up high from deep below,
Strength so unrelenting,
Reaching up to grab the air,
Shows no sign of bending.
Hoards of debris get swept in,
Tugged up in the swirl,
Creatures, plankton, all aboard,
Helpless to the whirl.
Gathering intensity,
Roaring from the deep,
Flexing muscle, mass and brawn,
In a skyward leap.
Thrashing like a man possessed,
Water turns to foam,
Deep, marine, turquoise blue,
Cradling a white dome.
A monolith Colossus,
Craving to succeed,
An ancient water-saurus,
An indestructible breed.
Alive with a spirit,
Whirlpools in its wake,
Dominating nature,
But for nature's sake.
Shadowing the sea below,
Reaching for the clouds,
Like a dead man come alive,
Trying to leave his shrouds.
Water gathers up itself,
In battle formation,
Rising from the sea around,
A majestic creation.
Reaching for the sky above,
An awesome show of might,
As if challenging gravity,
Offering a fight.
Higher, higher, higher,
The wave keeps its own,
Tugging at infinity,
Riding on a throne.
Gripping at oblivion,
Desperate to rise more,
Propelled by all the yearning,
That pushes from its core.
But...
Then the wave stops rising,
Like it's done its best,
Hovers in its glory,
Teeters at its crest.
Its very tip starts curling,
Slipping from its grip,
Losing all momentum,
Slowly starts to slip.
All the mighty buildup,
Potential and the might,
Lose their fight with gravity,
And swiftly lose their height.
Crashing back down to the sea,
Its force forever gone,
All that's left's a little spray,
The mighty wave is done.
------
So much like humanity,
The wave strives to grow.
And so much like humanity.
The wave fights his foe.
So much.
Like humanity.
The wave endures.
Its pain.
Yet so.
Unlike humanity,
This wave won't try.
Again.
as a child,
I perceived
the wonderment
of Clouds.
and elders
likewise contemplated
the curious celebrity of them
the solemnity of shape-shifting skyships
their charity of rain:
encouraging fruit
greening hills
irrigating joys
keeping
watch
around the earth
in as enviable
a perch
as the risen sun
or mystic moon
that guides tides.
sun runs
apace
moon whisks
its baton away
but Clouds
stay high,
perpetual
imprints
covering Space and Time.
Could
Clouds
be God's eyes?
***
when I was
-abecedarian-
counting from one to three,
I licked my lips
at Clouds
reckoning
I'd catch them
like docile butterflies,
and discern the flavors of miracle floss:
must be rose-white sugar
some barley flour
lamb's fleece and goose feathers
the elders, lofty and wise,
disparaged my foolish games.
I tugged
on the edge of their mountainous faces:
wispy chins
transient strands
billowy beards
closest clouds
I'd seen
Proximal nimbi
and their dust trail
of ginger, onion, and clove
pulled pork, frizzled cod, light ashtray
lingered...
I caught
those crazy hairs
so hard
candy-coated
raindrops
fell!
Reframing my mind
A sculpture in time
A masterpiece put on display
The sculptor it seems
Had grandiose dreams
Began molding his wet lumps of clay
Penchant for knowing
Ebbing and flowing
Oceans rearranging the sands
Some discipline here
Some patience there
Somehow never changing his plans
Flawed clay he had
Prone to go bad
His project was easy at first
As the mud grew colder
His hands grew bolder
The fastidious old man became terse
Adding final details
Persevered to prevail
Paused to examine his work
Glazed and fired
Time transpired
As the shadows tugged at his shirt
He never knew
His dream had come true
Through his toil and tears came success
The blueprint he was using
Though somewhat confusing
His creation lives on to impress
an original poem by the "poemdog" Daniel Turner
in memory of my Dad
The busy Moon forgot about the Tide.
She left it out all day upon the sand.
And when it found itself alone topside,
there mischief was immediately at hand
It washed the muddy Rocks until they shone,
then dragged in trash to mess them up again,
it chilled the chubby babies to the bone
and tugged their pudgy feet to pull them in
It rearranged the peaceful ocean floor
wrapped all the kelp into a tangled wreath,
then turned up all the driftwood on the shore
to tickle little creature underneath
It tricked the Fishermen it came across
by pulling at the lines they'd cast about,
took cages that it saw the Trappers toss
and let the little Crabs and Lobsters out
It called to Clouds that hung around the sky
then strained to meet them halfway in between
and splashed them until they began to cry
but just to make it rain, not to be mean!
It fooled with every Fish that floated by,
it sprayed the Seagulls when they flew too near,
it pooled in spots it KNEW the Sun liked dry
and played with all the boats along the pier
It twirled the baby Squid until they laughed
then passed them each a sponge to blot the ink
and after they'd been taught this master craft,
it swirled away like water down a sink
The Tide adored its mischief and it would
have gleefully put more toward its spree
but for the Moon, who for the greater good,
rose none too soon and let it out to sea!