Long Unceremoniously Poems
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I stay close to home these days,
my roaming needs seeming to
expire with age, finding more
of what I need in the Silence
of packing; of course, this
worn-out body is far too cumbersome
to even contemplate wanting – like
frayed clothing, now best for rags;
like empty cans for the recyclable:
I wonder how Earth will handle
my re-purposing?~as for my poetry,
will my works know future lips? Be
Whispered and sung, inspiring others
fancying fireside light and chat, within
the warmth of flickering, yet mysterious
shadows? Or will my words, unceremoniously
settle like bird droppings on tombstones,
surrounded by laurels of weeds, a forgotten
chapter? That settles it, I will opt for cremation!
Leaving tombstones and graves for
most politicians, TV Evangelists, and
Movie-stars, needing their world
monuments where the Devil will
easily find them for substantive
reunions....
What is the attraction with the lake?
Why are we drawn to its side?
Is there something mysterious about it?
Is there something it's trying to hide?
Does it hold the deep dark secret
Of a lady in a flowing white gown?
Was she the victim of some evil doing?
Did she unceremoniously drown?
This is how the old story goes
You can believe it or call it poppycock
A jealous lover tied her feet to a boulder
Threw her off the end of the dock
Now every evening at sundown
As a mist starts to rise from the water
The shadowy figure of a woman appears
The image of somebody's daughter
The tortured spirit of the “Lady of the Lake”
With her mournful cry for release
Forever to rise from the lake at sundown
Nevermore to rest in peace!
© Jack Ellison 2014
The year 1890
December 29th
Wounded Knee, South Dakota
My tribe lost their lives
The USS 7th
On their orders so
To round up the Sioux
Railroad herd them and go
Us Lakota were next
To disarm their request
But my cousin Black Coyote
At best he was deaf
Not hearing the orders
To lay down our guns
A chain reaction
Ensued on my tribal ones
Chaos and mayhem
Distressed our grounds
This proud nation
Beaten down
Men, women and children
300 slain
Another reminder
For the white mans gain
To disrespect the fallen
Slows our souls to our gods
We were left in a blizzard
Hardened like logs
In three days we rose
Civilians did lift
And dumped us unceremoniously
In a hole in the drift
My corpse and my peoples
Stripped and robbed
As flakes of snow
Confirm our spirits have sobbed
As i am reborn again
In another country
It gives me the freedom
To look back and see
That December day in 1890
Gunning down innocent ones
Not so mighty
The Medal of Honor
In their distinguished past
The record still stands
On their chests they flash
But attitudes change
As two centuries pass
The Medal Of Honor
Has won back its class
No longer the weak
Gunned down by the strong
Its man against man
Sometimes they do wrong
So as i sit back in my adopted nation
Will i live again past this lives station
Writing the wrongs of modern man
This Lakota warrior who never ran
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/native-americans.php
Again, 'tis that glorious season of the year,
For sharin' love and spreadin' holiday cheer!
Time for my dear spouse to begin her ever-lovin',
Bakin' of toothsome delicacies in her trusty oven!
Some of Grandma's recipes are used in this enterprise,
'Specially the one for her scrumptious pecan pies!
She bakes a fruit cake of which I'll taste just a tittle,
But I'll sure sink my choppers into lots of peanut brittle!
An elaborate Victorian gingerbread house is created,
And cakes so soaked in rum I'll surely be inebriated!
There are spritz cookies of every size and shape.
Calories abound in the penuche over which I go ape!
A Yule tradition is a cookie call snickerdoodles.
Of these and pralines I can eat oodles and oodles!
Aromas waftin' about the house nearly drive me daffy,
As she makes cookies, walnut fudge and molasses taffy!
I'm allowed the bliss of the pots and pans to scrape,
But beyond that from the kitchen I must escape!
To sample all that stuff my palate is just itchin',
But I'm unceremoniously invited out of the kitchen!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Computers can absolutely drive us to drink
It's programmed into their memory
Just when we think things are all hunky dory
It lets us down unceremoniously
To frustrate us more we even lose some data
Though we often hit “command/save”
But wouldn't you know it this was the exception
To these monsters we're truly enslaved
The damn things treats us like a piece of crap
I'm sure there are gremlins inside
Trying to turn us into some raving maniacs
Delight when they see us cry
Can't live with them, can't live without them
They've got us by those short curlicues
It's almost like they enjoy watching us struggle
But give in we absolutely refuse
They can drive us to drink, a bloody caesar
Every single night before bed
Oh for the days before technology reigned
When people ruled the world instead
© Jack Ellison 2015
I wish I was a family pet
Whose only needs are to be fed
And to unceremoniously
Relieve themselves in the park
I would of course be more discreet
Now about licking myself
In an effort to keep clean
Hmmm might draw the line there
Simply because I may injure myself
Trying to reach hard to get at regions
I guess I would prefer to be a dog
Cats are certainly more sophisticated
But full of their own importance
When most dog species
Are loveable and bowl you over with love
Hmmm now that I think about it
Apart from not having to wear a collar
Perhaps I'd rather remain a human
© Jack Ellison 2015
Computers can absolutely drive us to drink
It's programmed into their memory
Just when we think things are all hunky dory
It lets us down unceremoniously
To frustrate us more we even lose some data
Though we often hit “command/save”
But wouldn't you know it this was the exception
To these monsters we're truly enslaved
The damn things treats us like a piece of crap
I'm sure there are gremlins inside
Trying to turn us into some raving maniacs
Taking great delight when we cry
Can't live with them, can't live without them
They've got us by those short curlicues
It's almost like they enjoy watching us struggle
But give in to these things we refuse
They can drive us to drink, a bloody caesar
Every single night before bed
Oh for the days before technology arrived
When people ruled the world instead
Stung with the absence of his father, he excruciatingly rumbled deep inside of his mother’s womb.
He stormed out already filled with disappointing void.
The mother’s joy was of uncertainty.
Memories of her husband, flashed back right in her face once again.
She could feel the exhaustion of a lifetime encircled around her and the weight and magnanimity of raising the beautiful baby on her own.
Two years creeped by and the bond between them was legendary.
The love was so constant and consistent, like the sun will rise.
Their friendship thrived through the encroached stormy desert.
Her wings unfolded like an angel, extraordinarily patient as a lion hunting.
The fondness between them was as phenomenal as THE SERPENT GOD at chichen Itza, that he was unceremoniously detached from her.
A devastation of a 4-5 year old separation to a foreign land, felt like an erupted-never-ending-volcanic-nightmare.
The purpose of that crushing disconnection, was feeble.
he was starved off of food, shelter and raiment.
Apportioned milk from animals became the only privilege given.
The purest and cleanest form of consumed water, was of a residual of donkeys streamed through the shin of an old dirty black slave man.
An occasional feasting on birds, caught through invented-trapping.
With innocence, he’ll apathetically rip the head, feathers of the little creatures with bare hands, bury them in the sand of the mountain top desert, hours later, it’s BEANO.
He was deprived of even just a glimpse of his family for all those years, he wimped in loneliness.
And on a dark frightful night, came the growl of the famous fox, but he survived.
Life is fickle and comes without no warning and can’t be anticipated.
Survival can not be measured by *echoes* of preventions, it is destined and destiny is not always a gift.
The tale unfolds in hardship, a narrative woven through the threads of resilience and survival. The bond between mother and child, tested by separation, echoes the unpredictable journey of life—a journey marked by both strength and vulnerability.
What is the attraction with the lake?
Why are we drawn to its side?
Is there something mysterious about it?
Is there something it's trying to hide?
Does it hold the deep dark secret
Of a lady in a flowing white gown?
Was she the victim of some evil doing?
Did she unceremoniously drown?
This is how the old story goes
You can believe it or call it poppycock
A jealous lover tied her feet to a boulder
Threw her off the end of the dock
Now every evening at sundown
As a mist starts to rise from the water
The shadowy figure of a woman appears
The image of somebody's daughter
The tortured spirit of the “Lady of the Lake”
With her mournful cry for release
Forever to rise from the lake at sundown
Nevermore to rest in peace!
Today, I watched
From the bus garage
As you came outside
And casually brushed the snow
From the car,
Preparing to drive the kids
Away from me
And in that moment
I broke down and cried,
Remembering how long it's been
Since we were together
As a family
In that moment,
I wanted to embrace you,
And I wanted to help you
Like I always have
Over the years
In that moment,
I wanted to hear
The familiar chaos of little voices
Loudly protesting
As they are unceremoniously pulled
Away from the warm glow
Of electronics,
And forced to march
Into the cold November snow
In that moment,
I wanted to tell you that
Everything will be okay,
And that the truth will soon shine
Through the fog of his lies,
Like a beacon in the night
I wanted to tell you
That our love for our children
Will burn through the blackness
Of fear and hatred,
Forever destroying the evil
That tries to keep us apart.