Long Underappreciated Poems
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3
Pay attention!
Important chicken poetry coming up,
though no binary fantasies shall deconstruct
into raucous biddy enjambment.
4
Grandfatber always kicked Grandmother's chickens away
while he sat whittling under the Oak,
Those ruddy, Cherokee cheeks sweating even in the shade
as sweltering Carolina summers and bifocaled
old women melted him away in his seventies;
(Nothing heard by telephone,
cackling when he put the speaker to his mouth
or laid down to rest from the planting or harvesting,
On the flowered sofa
fussing with him to take off this boots,
putting The Liberty News under his feet);
But watching was Grandma's joy,
Haystack Calhoun and the Nature Boy,
wrestling on Saturday night
on the Philco black and white,
jumping up and jumping down
fists flying with each takedown;
Her fussing when he kicked her chickens--
He was a man of the Land not of the Leghorn;
Course he still cut off their heads for
Sunday dinners
with a whistle of his axe,
quick and clean;
So much better than Grandmother's
Flung blood and feathers,
The live body's flight
After wringing its neck.
(You really
Must take chickens seriously.)
5
Jesus,
my brother and I hated that rooster!
Mean!
I'll give you Mean!
Why that Leghorn from hell,
with the perfidious, featherless rear,
That wily old bastard,
laid for us kids from under the porch
flying at us spurs first
when we snuck out to play.
You had to admire his fierce
Protecting his brood
or just plain crazed for children's blood
maybe.
Therefore, I must insist
That you take chickens seriously.
6
The greatest chicken lit will not be televised,
but written by neurotic poultry
flirting with free verse
or thrown helplessly into concrete idioms,
wallowing in dirt-poor sentience;
Dissertations
on the identity crises of Rhode Island Reds
and the propensity of White Leghorns
to transfer insecurities of undifferentiated
consciousness
as violence enacted on certain small children
will be written but will probably not help chicken poetry endure.
7
Yet,
I pledge allegiance to the celebration of chicken poetry,
And the underappreciated poultry for which it stands,
One species, flightless but enduring,
With free range and corn for all.
In Native American mythology
The species of feline named Lynx symbolizes
The ability to see clearly, as well as being
The knower of secrets, in terms of what
We hide from ourselves as well as others
I did not ask for this gift
Nonetheless, it is ever present,
Sometimes, I strive to imagine
Having a blind eye for the
Things that I truly see
And owning a deaf ear
Towards what is really heard
Having known many people in this life’s venture
Associates sometimes are distant strangers
And strangers become close confidants
For to see what is hidden from others
Is to observe what is unseen by many
To know that which we attempt to conceal
From ourselves, is to look through the eyes of the Lynx
(pause)
Do these eyes pierce you?
Or do they intrigue you
Perhaps both at the same time?
I didn’t mean to make you shudder
While that smug tone of voice began to stutter
As you became aware of the pensive
Stare, that unintentionally seeps right
Through to the core, those false masks
So neatly worn, cringes upon the prospect
Of those interior thoughts exposed to the exterior
Gazing around a room full of puppets
To their own suppressed ideas
While thinking their inner most secrets are safe
However, the eyes of the Lynx do not lie,
(pause)
Go ahead,
Condemn the wealthy woman
Across the room in the corner
But did I notice a glare of envy?
Laugh at the alcoholic as he
Guzzles down his fluids of intoxication
But, wipe the saliva from your mouth
Persecute the two woman as they sit arm in arm
Was that a flicker of fascination I detected?
For now, I too will wear my mask
One of innocence and vulnerability
And saunter about the room quietly
For if they only knew,
Eyes of the Lynx
An unwanted gift?
Or underappreciated blessing?
Either way,
ODE TO THE MIGHTY LYNX……………………………………
We are the unsung heroes of the predawn light.
No we may never have fought in a great war,
or saved a soul from the snapping jaws of death.
People wave to us, but few know who we are
and most on a good days run could care less.
Like the organ grinder's monkey from days of old,
we have been repeatedly trained to do a task.
We do a job few would even consider doing
and most would not even attempt to try.
A job burdened with ever growing responsibility
due to the minutia of a ever expanding bureaucracy.
A grossly undervalued, underappreciated profession
designated part-time by thoughtless administrations
that mouth how important we all are once a year
only to persecute us for every trifling thing later.
If you are lucky enough to survive a number of years
without resigning or becoming a sacrificial lamb
on the altar of a fearful self serving public face,
you will get a tiny pension for your devoted service.
We are the unsung heroes of the predawn light.
The tolerant souls that routinely put up with
a few rude demanding manipulative parents
and their insolent misbehaving little darlings
just to be able to serve the greater majority
of decent well meaning thoughtful parents
and the precious treasures of tomorrow
they have temporarily entrusted to us.
Like a hamster running on a little wheel,
we go around in circles every single day,
but unlike the hamster we must summon
every instinct and learned skill to insure
every turn we make is executed flawlessly.
We are kept aloft on our spinning wheel
by the deliberate hands of a caring heart
and the many small souls seated behind us
that come to trust us not to make a mistake.
We are the one person in their little lives
that are not allowed to ever let them down
for neither of us may be able to live with it.
We are their school bus drivers...
Ignored Assumed Taken for Granted
By George W. Clever-----7 September 2020
Admittedly, there is a most important thing I take for granted
You may ask what do I mean by ‘taken for granted’?
I mean it is something undervalued
I mean it is something underappreciated
I mean it is something innately unfailingly available
Are you surprised to learn it is MY BODY?
Yes, I take the operating systems of my body for granted
Yes, I take the design and construction of my body for granted
Yes, I take the repair and maintenance of my body for granted
Never do I consider the possibility of placing value on any bodily function
No price placed on eyes that see
No price placed on lips that taste
No price on ears that hear
Do you expect me to appreciate the machinery taking my brain down the road?
When do I to appreciate the valves that stop a pee or a poop?
When do I to appreciate plumbing of arteries and veins moving blood with air for repairs?
When do I to appreciate joints, legs and arms that lift me off the ground?
Bodies are expected to be innately unfailing and always available
Teeth and stomach will always prepare food for energy
Skin will always repair itself without my assistance
Hair, finger and toe nails will always grow, even trapped in a coffin down below
UNTIL! taken by surprise when the heart stops beating
Critical systems default as arms and legs cease to move
Cells war with each other killing from within
Compelling life to halt when no fix can go in
There is only one body for me
Now more valuable than gold
No longer underappreciated,
Never again will I take it for granted
Warmth, surrounded me…always
My lips, my eyes, closed…
Mesmerized by the darkness that brought me consolation
I remember there were colors under those lids,
Green, spurts of purple…and sporadic yellows and reds
They danced and flashed
Whenever your voice rumbled and vibrated my abode
I remember the earthquakes of laughter
That pushed me against the soft, supported side…
I merely bounced back to the middle again
My legs, bending, and then kicking off against it
My body twirling in the lavish liquid
Natural twists and turns that were later underappreciated
Twists and turns that were who I was
I didn’t realize they would always shape who I am
Deep voice—music—surrounded me always
My ears opened to the muffled marvel
Curious of the outside world that birthed the mysteries of who I am
I recall frustration, kicking against your soft insides….
Colors of black, gray tints, and calming browns…
That left me gurgling for more of those outside sounds
Because that first day I heard the lightning yells
The hot swells of your insides boiled
My body twirled and twirled as I heard you wail
Crying…sobbing…
My heart beat faster—wanting more to leave this vessel
Wanting to be a separate thing
Wanting all to hear me scream
To feel the cold, rubbery hands of a stranger
Lift me—and to your breast—gift me
It was always the warmth of the liquid
And the comfort of our bond
That always remained
Bonds and beliefs never dry
Blood is blood
Color is color
It is living to be separate that makes us gods
We all love the magic of stories. They've been with us since the dawn of time.
This poem is written in support of those writers who are trying to make a living in a world paradigm of power, greed and obfuscation.
Writing makes a valuable contribution to society and should not be devalued or underappreciated.
Best wishes to all those from the Writers Guild of America. No one should need to strike to achieve acknowledgement and fairness. May the pen remain mightier than the sword.
Writers create magic with words
By Michelle Morris
03/05/2023
Writers create magic with words
They are the backbone of
Movies and shows
Seen around the world
They spin and weave
Tapestries of delight
Of intrigue and humour
Drama, love and fright
And yet they're so often underpaid
Overworked and taken for granted
While those in power take
The lion's share of money and time
Writers who win awards
Are perceived to be successful
But it's all an illusion created
To hide the truth of their situations
We need a paradigm shift
To create equity and freedom
Shining a spotlight on the blessing
Of our writers' soul inspired contributions
© Michelle Morris, 2023
Aequus = Latin for equal is the etymology for equity.
Paradigm traces to a Greek verb meaning "to show," and has been used in English to mean "example" or "pattern" since the 15th century.
Life can be a hard struggle. Life can pass you by. Life is like a cruel parent just watching as you cry.
Life can be unpredictable, like snowing in July. It can be like an owl hooting in the night, heard by some, ignored by many, but still underappreciated.
On many rare occasions, life can be happy. It can surprise you with someone you love giving you roses. Or laughing so hard you fall on the ground surrounded by friends.
But mostly life can be hard. Everyone you see can be struggling, but still be smiling. Life will throw you curve balls and laugh when it sees you collapse in tears. It can leave you in darkness with nowhere to go. Life is cruel and life can be beautiful, but mostly it is dark.
If you can be strong enough to get through it, there will be light at the end of the dark tunnel, a short little light where you don’t have to fight, but after the light is savored and welcome, life decides to pull the light away from you.
Life is an odd thing, filled with laughter and sorrow. But without darkness, light can be blinding. And without light, the darkness can be consuming.
Life is a confusing wasteland of emotions and fights for a happy mind and heart. It is full of beautiful sorrow and favored happiness. Life is an odd thing that can be taken away at any second, so savor it.
She smoked
She smoked,
my mother did, a LOT!
I never liked it.
To me she looked like
of those “molls” in
detective magazines,
later on television,
cigarette dangling
from the corner
of her mouth
acrid smoke
curling up (she didn’t inhale)
choking the air
as she played cards
or worked
at her desk.
To be sure,
there were “issues”
between husband and wife.
Mid-Great Depression
Dad out of work
or out of town for work
alone with
kids to manage
clothe and feed
with what?
So she smoked.
Small family Jewish
grocer let bills run up.
Smoking a comfort?
Housedresses, nothing new,
shoes needed for kids.
Teeth bad, pull them.
Children need dental care.
Sharp tongue cutting
no whining
“Just get on with it”.
Hurt, not understanding
we sulked. She smoked
Smoking and smoking
taking in relatives
with lost jobs, lost homes,
sick or in need, managing somehow
depressed (never admit it)
feeling put down,
frustrated, underrated
and underappreciated
never accomplished anything
worthwhile with her
college degree.
But, in her own way,
a saint in a housedress
Smoking away the grief.
The light to my life is flickering;
It shone bright for many years.
The fog around me is thickening,
But, please, spare me the tears.
I am fortunate to outlive the fears,
As long as I can lie here next to you
I’ll remember our fondest years -
As I bid you a final adieu.
The curtain falls on my final scene;
Confined to bed these last two years.
Giving plenty of time to reflect on things,
Realizing I have “Thank you’s” left in arrears.
I hope I haven’t underappreciated you, Dear;
I hope deep inside that you always knew
That I respected and loved having you so near -
As I bid you a final adieu.
I believe this is my last evening,
As I go to join my long passed peers.
I hope to be fitted with angel wings
And look down on you from way up there.
And late at night in dreams I’ll appear
To help chase away your blues.
I’ll do my best to keep your skies clear -
As I bid you a final adieu.
So, a little longer hold back the tears,
Until my last breath has finally passed through;
Hold my hand so I know you’re near -
As I bid you a final adieu.
Cloaked in grinding whispers
Such inhabitants feel
Their way
Gallop the day
By thrusting, trusting
Emblazoned minds
Envious looks deflected
As the clan stays on task
The full-time preoccupation
And execution of self-expression
Daring risks trickling
The vacant gutters
Thirsty for adrenalin
And a satisfying gulp
Of shattered dreams
Fashionable product
Underserved and underappreciated
By the sanctimonious angels
Slinging hash in pits
Adjacent to the realm of man
Does thou hast remedies
For secrets and manipulations
Self-inflicted
The favored play of
Tenderlicious vassals
Who clamor for more
Than anyone truly deserves
The proven chorus
Decorated in colors
Beyond their years
Hum a distant buzz
Galvanized harmony
Textured strokes o' plenty
Count the measure seventy
Plus whatever is needed
No budget heeded
Because symphonies
Laced with street sugar
And turnstiles revolving by
The peeks and cheats
Sing the bling
And never stray too far
Given no better place
To go.
(8/7/06)