Long Turn away Poems
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Enemy Mine
An enemy imagined is greater than an enemy that is real. For a real enemy can be killed, but an imagined enemy is invincible. No matter how much money we spend on defence, he will still exist. No matter how many we kill, the seed of its evil will spread. The true test of wisdom is to know the difference between an enemy imagined and an enemy that is real.
To live in a world where peace is a dream and war is the norm, this is the reality of man. Our governments and corporations spend untold fortunes on the weapons and the technology of war. A great amount of our economy is based in the machines of war. Worst of all is the cost in the lives of our family, our friends and our neighbors.
In the small town where I live bombs do not fall, mines don’t explode beneath our feet and children do not fall to sleep with the sound of gunfire. The night is not filled with fear and the cold. Their days are not filled with funerals, starvation and disease. Our children do not bury the dead or tend to the wounds of the injured. Long gone are the years of war with our neighbors and yet our children are still filled with the images and the horrors of war. Acts of terrorism abroad and at home fill the media with images of the dead and the dying. They haunt our minds with enemy’s real and imagined that feed on paranoia and fear.
If an enemy did not exist those that need one would invent a cause to fight or an enemy to kill. Animal rights activists and others the like, use images of horror to rally people to their cause. A war suited to the needs of people dissatisfied with peace, activists create a political war to turn away from peace. If won they do not stop they push for vengeance against those that opposed them. Then in that act become an enemy of peace. Causes to be fought without complete victory they become a new group a hate group. They commit acts of violence against those that oppose them. They wave their criminal records like badges of honour. Without the concerns of peaceful resolution the exhilaration of violence beckons to them. Their cause a call to war.
By
Josehf Lloyd Murchison
I stand where
the old breath gathers,
where earth became memory
and memory took root.
I am called mother
not for what I hold
above the ground
but for what moves unseen
the slow giving,
the listening
that does not turn away.
In the dark beneath you
I keep the stories warm.
They pass through me
without voice—
pulse to pulse,
root to root,
a knowing older than speech.
I have taken in
the footsteps of many
soft ones,
careful ones
those who spoke to wind
as if it answered
because it did.
Their songs did not leave.
They settled into me,
rested in my grain
like embers
that refuse forgetting.
When the small ones rise,
thin with new light,
I feel them
before they break the surface.
I steady them—
not by touch
but by nearness,
by the promise of staying.
Fire has named me before.
I do not turn from it.
It is a fierce remembering,
a clearing of breath,
a way the land speaks
in heat and renewal.
Do not think I end
when I fall.
I open.
I return.
I become the ground
that holds the next voice.
Lay your hand
against my skin
and be still enough
to feel what continues.
You are not outside this.
You have only forgotten
how to listen.
Note:
Mother Tree is a poetic symbol, not a universal Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander belief. It is written with respect for First Nations understanding of trees as living parts of Country—kin, ancestors, teachers, and keepers of memory. Cultural beliefs and stories differ between Nations and Communities.
Written with respect for the Traditional Custodians of the land on which this poem was written, and in recognition that cultural knowledge belongs to the communities from which it comes.
There are those who believe this Age is ending
They mark time by fractures, not by firelight sending.
While I... have watched another map unfold: a hidden one, a tree in hymns
Drawn in the quiet hands of those remembering… you, being one of its limbs.
You were never meant to flee the storm
Sadly, into it… being born.
So, you can rise not as an escapee
But as witness, as a re-weaver to be.
As the one who sees the bones beneath the sky, and fearless...
Did not and does not now… turn away tearless.
Seeing the age of fixed meaning is ending
To apply better stitching, changing, mending.
Knowing we are not who we were... a generation past
And tomorrow, we won’t be who we are today...
Being not meant to last.
Not because of failure... because the world has entered a turning
This is not collapse, nor is it progress churning…
It is not prophecy fulfilled
It is just life... paying its bill.
It is the sound of old structures cracking
Beneath the weight of too many borrowed truths, tracking.
It is then the stillness after memory is uprooted
Before new roots find soils better suited.
It is the storm... not of weather, but of meaning
Of something grand, better seeming.
___*___
In this storm, we are asked no longer to believe...
But to perceive better, to receive
Through not holding fast to the known…
No, become able to see what has never been before shown.
To see with the Art of Seeing… not just with the eyes about the room
But through resonances, shimmers, and presence’s blooms
And the broken chords of once-beautiful songs...
Now longing to be sung again
With new notes, containing a deeper silence between them.
___*___
Oh yes, in this age, philosophy must be lived like a raft
Versus written for pillars rising in temples of marble crafts.
This philosophy must float, it must bend
It must not just ask... “What is truth, as of old, where will it too end?”
No, instead: “What is true enough to carry us through this crossing?”
We seek not conclusions tossed… but continuity.
Not control... but resonance, welcomed in unity.
And so, bonding us further into the beyond understanding, we walk.
So it is, this now, with the new path seeing… we will talk.
And once again to sing… a most beautiful song.
The rushing wonts of action render these happenings unmovable,
These feelings, passionately felt, to dull words ill and strained
She clings, my koala, with chocolate eyes pining for my green
Though each time she lets me go, she leaves me docile and pained
Once before I claimed her; yes, she did not turn away from me
But instead gazed on how the breeze could sway my branches
I wanted my bark to secrete the sweetest tears,
So she would know how eternally I yearn for her glances
For it is she alone, who can consume and digest my poisons
It is she alone—besides the sun—who gives me reason to stand erect
I would love to be Santa for the longest day,
wear his red suit that he kept in the closet,
roam every street to make children giggle and laugh
as hard as they can...no child or teen I will turn away!
His famous "Oh, Oh! " I will rehearse
with patient and perfection...
making my loud voice hoarse!
Santa pay me a visit before Christmas,
we'll figure out a plan to suit our need...
before snow falls and kids start to fantasize!
And with our " Oh, Oh, " we greet everyone,
giving away gifts and hugs to many indeed...
look! They're running towards us to knock us down!
Imagine the sleigh bells ringing as we'll be caroling,
stopping for another " Oh, Oh " to delight a curious child...
wouldn't that be the jolliest Christmas feeling?
The Edmond Fitzgerald was a tanker bold, twenty five thousand tons
of cargo, she held in her hole.
A crew of twenty seven sailors, a captain and a mate sailed the stormy waters
of a Michigan Great Lake.
She cruised out under a clear blue sky: they stood on the decks
as the waves slipped by.
They saw the sea birds turn away and saw the flags flutter
and the tackle swing and sway.
Sailing in the haze of the coming night, dropped her tug at the last buoy
light, trimmed her speed and headed for the south, took the wind on her bow
and a bone in her mouth.
Her radio was warning danger when came the first morn, from
out of the northern waters roared a winter storm.
The first of the season with rain and thunder, with her hole full
of cargo, she threatened to go under.
Fearful was the squall that struck her straight away and bowed
her down to her waterway.
She rose and fell on foamy swells that swept her deck
clean in a roaring hell.
The sailors below and no time to dress, she clashed and clanged
In her tangled distress.
She wallowed and floundered in a deadly death roll and
broke apart at the number six hole.
It took only minutes for the storm to take her down;
not a trace of her passing was ever to be found.
The Edmond Fitzgerald was never to be seen again, a testament
to the power of a Lake Superior wind.
“Life”
Sat here in this god-damned courtroom,
unable to move
backed into the corner by kangaroos
no escape from the ill-informed
baptised in their five minutes of fame
they like to pin me like I’m a donkey
I have no tale to wag...
but they’ll beat it and wag the dog
just the same,
it seems I'm becoming a fable;
stupid decisions
I made sometimes in my life
I was the try-hard
fat boy slim, wrong place, wrong time
criminally forensic
I could have avoided it all
but here I sit, shackled and seated
as if sinking 6 feet in cement, humiliated to nothing
unable to move
to present a remarkable meaning
a motive, an inkling to open end it all
I could be innocent, admission of something
anything,
before the whole world.
They are ALL -
magnetically pulled
towards me, yet unseeing
to what is directly in front of them,
fathoms underneath it all;
why here?
closed off,
buried already
like I’m sealed
no open case
without a true voice heard
vaccumed sucker-punched
in a closed box
rat-a-tat-tat
in front of those
in a more superior world
grave diggers all, ignorant,
yet more virtuous their call
they’ve had their voice heard;
Me -
three words
in a sectioned stance
I say audibly loud enough
as if in a trance,
“I respectfully decline”…
the ball bounced against
a dumb wall
where vacuous minds are lined up,
resounds back.
Life
4
consecutive times
applied
somewhere
out there
the real monsters
walk free.
And here I am,
dealing with mine, inside,
perhaps a patsy,
the outside continues to debate
angel or monster?
human or demon?
I have no voice.
the audience
speaks it for me,
has its final say -
true or false?
I turn away;
163214
the number of a man
on the table
pen and paper
a work of art
for deciphering,
a black heart remains
CandideDiderot ‘25
Is Judgment Near
Miracle Man
2/11/2022
It’s more than a virus infecting the land,
we awaken each day to a state of paranormal.
My thoughts are that God has removed his hand,
and things will never return to being normal.
Prophecy is being fulfilled as each day goes by,
are we nearing the day when man will succumb?
Protest is rampant, and for free stuff is the cry,
the peace that man seeks God says won’t come.
2 Timothy 3:1-5
'This know also, that in the last days perilous times shall come. For men shall be lovers of their own selves, covetous, boasters, proud, blasphemers, disobedient to parents, unthankful, unholy, without natural affection, trucebreakers, false accusers, incontinent, fierce, despisers of those that are good, traitors, heady, highminded, lovers of pleasures more than lovers of God; Having a form of godliness, but denying the power thereof: from such turn away.'
Faded Silence
A room filled with absence when walking away.
Go ahead...Turn away!
There is nothing left to see.
Setting the stage to be set free
Arms reached out to feel, when nothing is there to grasp hold
Cold, yet inviting.
Frozen to that moment in time.
What was left there to say?
Your voice faded away on this, exact day.
Seeing only the imagery of your presence
Wanting only for you to stay.
A room empty of reticence, emerged into view.
When seeking the truth while thinking of you.
Knowing at that point the silence was true.
Delaying the end, as the silence begins once again.
Darius Howard 8/30/16
When she dreams/ with Jennifer Noble
(It was a) different time...
a different world
Long ago she learned that..
trust can turn
(Everyone said) such a pretty girl...
Her porcelain skin so soft and new...
but...no one had a clue
Chorus
She still hides from the danger
and when she dreams she's far away...
In her mind...she's living in a better place
No one can take-
take away
Broken bags-treasures saved
I rushed on by but,
could not look away
I could not breathe- so surprised
saw my reflection-in the stories
in her eyes...and...I saw her shine
Chorus 2
She still hides from all the danger
and when she dreams she's far away...
In her mind, she's living, in a better place
no one can take-where she feels safe
She won't tell you her problems,
she won't do as she's told
Sometimes I go and sit beside her
and..watch her universe unfold
Bridge
Where the danger keeps replaying
in the...hollows of her mind
and I try to piece the pieces...
try to give her... some of mine
Chorus 3
We all keep our secrets silent
we walk faster -turn away
We're all looking for a better place
Where we can be
We can be seen...
Where we can dream
Original write February 21,2018
John Derek Hamilton and Jennifer Nobles
final revision January 15,2020
collaboration with Jennifer Nobles completed
March 15,2020