Long Upstarts Poems
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AFTER HOURS
Dudes in duds broken down brims
cocked and bent creases in trousers
when thugs were gents
People with attitude women too
demeanor and outfits like
Ebony's front pages
Dudes in duds broken down brims
Money on backs eyes watching
the eye's of watchers
Entrances and exits.
Wink or nod jazz in smoky
rooms groomed and manicured.
sashay across the room stepping off in
Bally's shoes shined no scuff
after hours.
high profile.. Dudes in duds
broken down brims.
Men creating temporary illusions
Clean to the bone
deliberate sashay tempo exaggerated
tempting and teasing pleasing the eye
karat's on fingers scents linger
Exquisite cologne clean to the bone
faded edges -role playing no script
Dudes in duds
Broken down brims cocked and bent.
Attitude in threads
We wait to be called in that back room
Where they'd spit "Gangsta Wit".
before videos
Was dudes in duds with sweet tongues
making their points in after hour joints.
Live and direct we upstarts
learning our parts we'd sit
internalizing gangsta wit
like understudies to a movie script
In after hours joints........... delighted...
If we are not,
is this always the opposite of
when we are?
If we are negative,
is this sometimes appositionally
in creative tension with
when we are becoming more positive?
If we are a noticed absence
is this sometimes appositional
to we are not yet fully perceived?
And is this more oppositional
when we are an unnoticed absence?
Defying hostile misperceptions
we need never become known
appreciated
positively regarded
Or a newly observed absence
merely appositional lack of connecting
integrity waiting curiously aware
we are not yet seen
known
regarded
appreciated
cherished
And yet,
or not
still surviving
where and when
we once together thrived
Or still reviving
why
now and then
Earth once healthy thrived
wealth of positively co-relating
co-empathic
co-regarding not retributively just me
as also animatedly spirited
more positively
restoring restorying eco-we
multiculturally natural outside
multigenerational history
of inside trauma
and outside therapy
If I am not
merely the opposite
of who we are becoming
together
more than appositionally apart
Reconnecting egos
oppositionally
defiantly unhealthy
unwealthy
indigenously unwise
anthro-supremacist upstarts
and elder tarts
cuz I can't say old -arts
Here and now
pestering parents
and teachers,
nurses
and preachers:
If we are not feeling
physically sick,
is this merely the EarthTribal opposite
of when Others are thinking
spiritually ill?
Plotting, may not be planning
designing, may not be re-creating
maligning, feels unaligned
threatening, couldn't be encouraging
aggressing, feels spectacularly unkind
regressing, not impressive
dissociating, cause for not reassociating
divesting, feels like lack of co-investment
excommunicating, simply not communicating
colonizing, sounds like a malignant tumor rumor
punishing, seldom is rewarded with compassion
traumatizing, encourages self-stigmatizing
marginalizing, chronic traumatizing
terrorizing, critical drama events
Wandering uneased
wondering if we are anthro-healthy
inside,
is this ever the diseased opposite of
when we are feeling EarthTribe eased
outside?
What was it that you said
about English law traditions
with two heads
One for protecting real property rights
of monotheistic kings
to autonomously legislate their deeds
by dogmatic decree
Unchanging entitled ownership
of land
and all commodities upon Her
Royal manifest destiny over upstarts
serfs
soldiers
and tenants,
too much consumers,
and not enough producers
Descendents of dark slaves,
another form of living property,
livestock
chattel.
Meanwhile, this other mysterious line
inherited from some Mother's polytheistic culture
which might more civilly prevail
for restoring peaceful domestic issues
about equity,
fairness,
balance between cooperative managers
ecosystemic nurturing matriarchs
marginalized by conservative elitists
royal corporate capitalists
monopolists
straight white monotheists
More court-friendly to liberal democratic lovers
EarthTribal co-investors
polyculturalists
endowed with indigenous
bicamerally balanced
ego/ecosystemic wisdom
of economic and political
co-investment
cooperative co-ownership
EarthJustice stewardship.
I'm asking because,
if it please the Royal Capital Court,
and even if it too democratically doesn't,
To autonomously own living property
is against my sovereign religious beliefs
Both immoral
and illegitimate
to lord it over plants
and people on organic cooperative lands
and in global co-invested waters
recovering our sacred MotherEartha
planetary resonant health,
resilient past through future wealth
Advocating for and with polycultural Communion,
pleading and bargaining for health justice
and safe peace
for All EarthTribal Souls.
The forces of self destruction wax in their strength.
Virus of creation that goes to every length
to snuff out the dancing lights coloring our soul,
making soft oblivion preferred to control.
From what wellspring comes this sour, blackened madness?
Foulest demon shrouded - sowing seeds of sadness?
Perhaps it is intrinsic to created things;
the sight of our limits may falter one who sings.
But behold the wonders within your pulsing hearts!
Dreams, love, curiosity, and other upstarts
who see the race of time and somehow still rejoice,
knowing that to be has e'er been the noble choice.
So cling to art, romance, and all may still be well -
Withstanding death's sneer in your neon citadel.
Written 24 April 2022
dead end street …
mostly elderly when we came
always quiet …
empty nests side-by-side
aching for spring
but winter came instead
(the winter of life)
friends … good people -
town folk who raised this little
borough with pride
came to this blind alley to wait for God
and He obliged …
one-by-one, this road of
retirement rolled over …
the reap saw these quiet abodes
flipping fast and furious
and the once-aged occupants were
replaced with families -
young professionals and upstarts
fresh-woven nests filled with
chicks and younglings -
little voices and wings to test
upon the breeze
training wheels and swing sets
where lounge chairs once grazed lazily
backboards and rollerblades
and a valid reason for the ice cream
truck to loiter, it’s silly music box
jingling the afternoons with cold, tasty
wonder-in-a-cone …
time - passing like a subway car -
just a flash in the dark …
grain-by-grain the
hourglass steadily sifted
and a once-peaceful lane became
a circus of activity -
giggles and screeches replacing the
silence with the music of life
the rarely-a-car avenue, vibrant and joyous
picnics and lawn parties
birthdays and showers and fireworks
playballs left unattended
bicycles laid at the curbs in a rush
pets being walked
and the commonplace, everyday things
started being … every day …
oh, no mistake -
I loved the quiet when we came
and tho’ I dread the winter months now -
the post-Christmas cold, dead and
long-dark days, grinding on me
like a ragged old dirge -
that quietude and peaceful contemplation
is STILL one of life’s greatest
“little pleasures” to me …
yet … it’s the NOISE that I’ve come to
miss the most this time of year -
those little voices of
youth and vibrancy that sing me
through the warm months,
reminding me what being here is
all about, and making me
yearn more than ever
the sweet, joyous, callow kiss …
of Spring.
(Photo of Maplewood Drive by yours truly)
Look who's now looking when things fall apart;
Oblige the lacking in things left undone;
Invoke the slacking as lazy upstarts;
Trust your reckoning to corrupt your pun;
Ending is starting to be frightening;
Reach for the scary moments that hurl lack;
Invoice your tearing for random straining;
Notice the dreary figments in playback;
Give your weakness time to capture the vain;
Ask to suppress blues that bleed yet more fears;
Mangle the bleak chimes that gather more pain;
Appease your sad dues with urgency clear;
Zest drains away now in melancholy;
Empty sad endow life's mad tragedy.
Leon Enriquez
07 June 2014
Singapore
The comic chases laughter; bright applause beneath bright lights.
Each joke returns with cheers, sparkling with flared highlights.
The poet casts quiet braided fly-lines into uncertain free air,
Not knowing where they'll settle, trusting someone to find them there.
Laughter often arrives on cue before another punchline starts.
The comic plays the audience, outwitting the many clever upstarts.
The poet leans into the silence, hoping words reach waiting hearts.
They both treasure every thud and thump from well-flung verbal darts.
The comic trims each story into punchlines, sharp and strong.
The poet weaves in small clues and prompts, inviting readers along.
One, harvests roaring raucous applause, that fills every room.
The other, sows small seeds, expecting next spring flowers, will bloom.
The comic reaps the harvest well before the last laughter dies.
A joke can miss completely, falling flat in befuddled ears and eyes.
A poet keeps on casting many more lines, despite the lows and highs.
Awakening lost memories, with hushed oohs, ahhs, and silent sighs.
Of course there's slam, where poets chase applause with a spoken or sung flame.
Their verses leap from silent sullen pages, eager to stake their claim.
The crowd joins in with cheers and snaps, each heartbeat keeping time.
Half stand-up act, half-hand crafted verse — both reaching for the sublime.
And for Christmas we have received from our children DNA tests.
Tests to say whether we are outstarts, downstarts, upstarts, or slowstarts.
I already know that I am a re-start, as I re-start things over and over and over.
But the point is, our children were interested, and so now I guess we are too.
The procedure is easy. They send you a test tube with a stopper and a little cork lid, and a mail back box.
You spit ten times into the test tube, put the stopper on it, make the little box up,
Pop the spitted-up test tube into the box, and mail it in to the FBI if I was guessing.
They probably then check you against all of their data bases for criminal activity and send back results.
I figure they had a creative writer make up sixteen to twenty patterned results, and they choose one.
I received my results and was disappointed as I wanted some great slices of something ethnic,
Exotic, some proof that I come from Africa or Turkey or South America. Nothing wonderful like that happened.
I had some Swedish, English, Pennsylvania Dutch, Scottish, Irish, common stuff, nothing exotic or fun.
My husband who had been bragging for years that he is a hundred percent German, as he thinks they
Are all smart is sitting in a stupor,
Pouting that he has a teeny sliver of German, and something else I have forgotten already.
But the great news is, he is more English than the English who now live in England.
Quite disappointing as we cannot even understand them on the T.V.
Great Christmas present.
Thanks Girls.
Like all who write, I'm enchanted by words.
their musical sounds falling on each page.
a gentle caress, or slashing of swords,
Words of upstarts or elegantly aged.
What power is found in a single word!
words so lovely, you long to simply hold.
Those inspiring adventures unfettered
or bringing a tear as sorrows unfold.
Opinions offered--thoughts without a hedge.
Happy gifts of synonyms seldom used
sunlit words within a smile's funny edge
careful to keep word's context unabused.
Often a challenge, but with many gifts
a fresh page awaits like a new-born day
inspired, my mind seeks any gone adrift--
words to enchant me and take me away.
February 12, 2023
for Constance La France's
Writing Challenged--E Words Poetry Contest
howmanysyllables=10 per line
A First Place!
(Dedication: For people of goodwill who
share a common humanity on this lovely
Mother Earth, may the light of truth,
love and beauty shine forevermore.)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
There is a light
Certain and true
That offers sight
When sense pays dues.
There is a way
To live true quest
Through night and day
As soul knows best.
Dark is the day
When dreary thoughts
Frame evil ways
In ego's plot.
Dark are the times
When hate finds ways
To hush sweet rhymes
With dread that slays.
How can love kill
With brutal art
To threaten will
With vile upstarts?
How can killings
Make this old world
Good for living
In anguished swirls?
True religion
Will comfort each
With compassion
And kind outreach.
True religion
Will join all parts
Not ambition
With broken hearts.
These crazy times
Sparked by evil
To herald chimes
Wrought by devils.
These dreary days
Sired by fancy
To foster ways
That kill what's free.
Love is the sign
That all is well
When heart aligns
Free will to dwell.
Love is the way
That shows us how
To live each day
With true peace now.
Evil men slay
The godly good
As hatred strays
Upon their moods.
Evil men show
Their violent tact
As madness flows,
Self-destruct acts!
Love is the way
The true light shines
As each man may
Heed the divine.
Love is the truth
That gives free will
To know sure proof
In joy that fills.
Leon Enriquez
15 January 2015
Singapore