Long Unseeable Poems
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A moment to simply forget yourself
I give you this time for your choosing
For your desires for when you dwell
Is there that moment forgotten worth remembering?
A timeline only you know
Only because you are the author without means
For when you knew will you show?
What it's like to live without dreams
There is... was always a time
When everyone wanted to be someone... someday
And living a life dying to find
Lives no one in everyone who has nothing better to say
Can you or do you want be noble?
Do you know noble with all life reference?
As well as the past we cannot see future able
Are once deaths for unseeable future to livings' deliverance?
I give you time now for the remembering
A moment to truly be yourself
Yet forgotten are you with simple words choosing?
Where belongs your moments for when desires dwell?
Sheltering myself from unhappy thoughts,
is recalling those serene days on deserted shores...
picking up empty shells discolored and broken,
they mean squalor to the vagrant who has awoken!
Instantly I'm overtaken by the somber winter's blues,
it's the sureness of the February sky that deludes;
and turning myself into a seagull I explore infinity...
there all the sins that the earth declares meet divinity!
Looking down the unread book turns its pages
with the help of the whimsical wind rising from its deep;
if any storm should suddenly arrive: all the dreariness I would keep,
not be imagining what's unseeable that can hinder radiant images!
Being hopeless strips me of laughter and of its salubrious humor,
solitude incurs the anger and the guilt of dissociating from friends;
they are needed when some tragedy all abhorred pain transcends...
I glide through unlimited space wishing I had understood this sooner!
How can this restless wanderer shelter himself from unhappy thoughts...
when tears trickle down his cheeks being assailed by poignant moments?
Even sadder is the nostalgia that increases its depth of degree;
can he shut his eyes to oblivion and pretend that he's finally free?
I can hear the mouthless wind
loudly howling outside my window
Its wingless unseeable form whipping through
the leafless trees
riding the branches wildly
And blowing falling flakes onto every available space
and covering them in white giving them
admirable shapes
Oh yes indeed
what a magical sight to gaze upon
And although I happily enjoyed watching the snow soundlessly gliding down
kissing the ground softly and forming beautiful landscapes
The harshness wind is toothlessly bitting through my bones with its frigidness
So I think it’s time to turn up the fireplace for some heat for my chilly bones
And maybe a cup of delicious hot cocoa to warm my soul
Because
baby it is cold outside
Akkina
2/1/21
Like some Dantean punishment
It descended in mid-May,
Turning my favorite springtime month
Into an endurance test.
We fell to sleep beneath a tide of heat
Rose to rising heat, uncoiling
From the roasting ground.
The heat was thickly wet though no rain fell;
Made one walk with slowed reptilian gait
Pressing through invisible deeps.
I stood looking over my lawn
As I panted beneath the unseeable, steaming sea
As I watched it turn into a minature savannah.
Thoughts of the Amazon crowded me,
Choking under waves of green.
Later, guzzling cold tea beneath my blasting vents
My Scientist Voice reminded me
How no May of my childhood ever seethed like this,
Back before we burnt that hole in the sky, Down Under.
I thought of how our own blazing star
Is crowding closer to us now,
A yellow tiger,
Burning all too bright.
CLIMBING
I try to climb the cascading garlands
Over-tossed from unseeable high points.
Oh, there! By a squint of the eye! A random,
Compelling break in the continuum allows
For a hint of the divine and, these delighting
Garlands — braids of faith, no doubt released by
The little hands of the angelic putti,while reciting
Limericks of heaven, and letting sound their soft smiles as they send below their gathered
Strings of blooms. To temp us...No...Direct us on
To further passages for souls praying for a reach
To eternal gates and gardens. There
Our longings are planted and watered by
God-collected tears. So,these are
The garlands of our lives, which we endeavor to
Rise upon again with now stalwart legs, and a full
Addressing of souls — awaiting splendor.
This trying to climb requires a strength
With a softness...only souls may inspire:
The breath to endure.
*******************
(C) Sally Young Eslinger 9/9/20
in faces lined like glaciers
sometimes there's loneliness
that cuts a tow line to safety
air of flux and hostility
over dazed eyes
turbulent modernity
sometimes we yearn for elegance
like a warm shoulder
its edge of acceptance
fitted with precision
yearn to heal a heart in straight jacket pain
to know motivation that punches above the weight
of a fragile frame
to relish the faith of a welcoming hand
to find a community
that bends the bar of one's cage into bracelets
shuffled like a deck of cards
lives seldom remain still
yearning to break an existence slurred by off color jokes
reaching for an unseeable light
a homeward wish
smothering woe
3.
The Last Good Day
All looks well when half a week's gone,
Though I wish the same might be said
Of the outside world.
As morning sunlight streamed into my lower-floor room
Shining bright among the hopeful on a cooler morning
Just as Gulliver's god was beginning to matter to me again,
Madness claimed the rush hour.
Five random shootings occur
All over the nearby city
Marking the opening
Of a festival of Death
Soon to rage 'til October's end.
Now each day that follows
No one outside of walls can call themselves safe.
Unknown to me then
I was no longer safe myself.
Invisible snipers of a different sort
Collected to come for me.
All seemed so well;
The crashing feeling of the Sitting-Up Ritual
Was receding, the ally of morphine
Less and less required.
But a strange constriction announced itself,
Some subtle, unseeable python
Was beginning to coil about me;
The drawing of breath gets harder and harder from this day forth,
No one seems to know why.
Upon a time, not so long ago
I saw these things, and locked them away
In the treasure room of my memory:
One sunset, Apocalyptic in its brilliance;
Clouds of opal shimmering,
Flying across a sapphire sea.
The white ruins of an ancient city.
Once home to a great and proud people,
Streets long settled into the silence
Of years marked off by dust,
My footprints in that dust.
And just beneath these things I felt another something
Immense, Unnamable
That lies far below our common perceptions
Like water flowing beneath thick ice.
The knowledge of its prescence,
Felt only in those fragile moments
When images too beautiful for the frailty of words
Burn their way into the depths of our souls,
Has given me that sound I hear now in silence
A clear bell that sounds a tone
Not made by any instrument of Man,
Which stills the frantic revolutions of my reasonings
And gives me back the pure sight I had long ago
Before my childhood disappeared.
In fleeting impressions
Falling through the tempest of experience
That carries us all through life,
I sense this other side of the world,
The calm, steady eye
That holds fast in the center of the cyclonic round
Of Creation and Destruction
That drives the Universe along:
The unmoving Hub
At the center of the infinite wheel.
Sometimes I feel this faraway place
Lying nearer than my latest breath,
Standing firm somewhere beyond all confusion,
And island of strength beyond all substance
Surrounded by the seas of our doubts.
I touch it with my mind, in flashing moments
And it is enough
To bring some peace to the wars of my emotions,
To steady my hands as I guide my life
Towards its unseeable end,
Uncertain and dim in the approaching distance.
>The Unseen Clock
This is not the struggle of a single, glorious fight,
Not a dragon to be slain upon a cliff at night.
This is the struggle of the gutters, slow and deep,
Where promises and paychecks are a bargain you must keep.
It’s the alarm clock’s verdict, a sentence you can’t pleacenterThe 9-to-5, the 9-to-7, the 24/7 plea.
It’s the bus that sighs and shudders, breathing metallic breath,
A chariot for the weary, on a road that smells of death
By a thousand paper cuts, by a million silent screams,
And the flickering of office lights on forgotten, tired dreams.
It’s the everyday people, with their everyday scars,
Pushing carts through supermarkets, polishing the bars,
Fixing someone else's engine, staring at a screen of code,
Carrying the unseeable, but ever-present load.
It’s the gutters of the spirit, where ambition goes to drain,
In the gentle, constant drizzle of the monotonous rain.
It’s the coffee cup that trembles in a hand that’s going numb,
The calculation of the days until the weekend will have come.
It’s the struggle in the shoulders, in the small of the back,
The fear that if you stop, you’ll never get the rhythm back.
But in the gutters, look again, a different kind of fire,
The stubborn will to build a life, is all the soul’s desire.
The courage in the lunch pail, the love packed neat inside,
The second wind you catch for kids who run to you, eyes wide.
This is the daily battle, fought with time and weary bones,
On the factory floors, the call centers, the telephones.
A war waged for the simple things, a roof, a meal, a song,
The struggle makes the everyday people mighty, proud, and strong.
AMERICA I
Born of rebellion, this place.
Yet what, precisely, does it manifest,
If anything?
The dross and dregs,
Stumblings of a much older world
Found their way here,
Carried across a wide, careless sea
That brought them to their New World
Full of desires base and profound
A New World
Carved and shaped
Wooed and won
Wildnesss beaten back by souls as wild
Flying the Pandora's Box
Left carelessly open
From its beginning, this place would be
A birthing-place of turmoil, triumph, beauty, blood
Madness and mad hope
Beginnings tied to unseeable endings
Gain and loss
Pride and shame.
The old world sent a great storm to these shores
That swept and scoured,
Shattered and rebuilt
That never stopped,
Roiling and seething,
Even to this very day.