Long Uptake Poems
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The Crow
(A lone voice whispers)
No happiness for me and my best friend
Tony the pony today
For we lost our beloved muse
At 2 pm
One minute she was in full view
Perched on our old Oak tree
Watching us with beady black eyes like a true devotee
Then just like the uptake in poetry
In the 21st Century
By the younger generation
We were old news
She must have flew away to better things, we both thought
As we walked home
Past the village post office
Thinking of our old muse
With the crow like black hair
Lost to us forever
After getting us addicted to reading writing and listening to poetry
Underneath that old Oak tree
Now flying alone
Somewhere
Out there
Looking down below
For a new home
Like it once had
With Tony the pony
And me
(C)
Copyright John Duffy
Foundation.
Is poetry like a bird flying around looking for somewhere new to land, after introducing others to its mysterious pleasures?
But as the newer generations get addicted to gaming platforms, and social media.
Will it eventually find landing, harder and more and more rarer?
these events and thoughts pass all over me,
like insects on a fluorescent screen,
a glitter, a moment, flicker of time,
a lifetime to travel in social slime!
memories are made, memories erased,
on the brain slate of nerves, bemused and dazed,
writer is unseen, the chalk doesn’t screech,
my story unfolds and fate? out of reach!
many voices come through, somewhere from dark,
no faces to see, no glimmer, no spark,
my eyes are shut but my mind is awake,
soul records my spiritual uptake!
I am but a blank white sheet on time’s book,
million pages may not get a second look,
I am imprinted with what hand writes on me,
what generations may read, I let be!
a world of illusions, world of untruths,
from our birth to old age through erring youth,
in this ignorance is silent wisdom,
seeking eternal truth, yearning freedom!
Unseeking Seeker sponsored
Screen of Awareness Poetry contest
Written 24/05/23
10 syllables each line
5 stanzas with aabb rhyme sequence
And in the well-worn ache
of turning mourning,
there are no more tears-
for all is beauty-lathed
misery, held unswathed,
without fearing to uptake
hope's new sculpted shape.
A changeling exchanged
while flailing naked
in it's abyssal state.
And wholeness excises, to demean
only fruitless shoots, now seen
to sow what has no further meaning.
And in the ague
of restless morning's
fitful, nude, new break
from dim, unsculptured yaw-
fretful feet leave
dark, wet indents in dew.
Old soul trails beneath gift's gape-
heaven's gate, just ajar,
seeps, speaks healing wreathed
in Love- the writhing heart agape.
And thr dry-cried throat
too friction ground to speak,
slakes it's thirst on dew-
Heaven's assuage tempers, cools.
And in eyes' age
of blinding burnings-
forceful, rude muckrake,
there are no more proud airs.
For eyelids pasted shut, caked
in self- molded clay's despair,
felt insightful incision
draw sharp truth's decision deft-
knavish knots excised, reveal
man's Sculptor knows justly how
to grave His image.
And seeing is only believing,
when believing is cleft open
to high insight's slice and sculpt
understood, read, spoken.
02/12/2017
An Opinion
Does "old age" have its own rewards?
I have reached a point in my life when
I am inclined to say: yes. Yes.
Often, old age is accompanied
by aches, in body and in mind.
Our youthful vigor is long gone.
We miss those no longer with us.
Age does not magically bestow
mythical "wisdom" as is trumpeted.
I am not very much wiser at 81
than I was at scarcely fourteen.
Somewhat slower on the uptake, I'm
no hungry sponge absorbing input
without loss of clarity or of comprehension.
Aged, I have hearing deficits, "mental fogging",
and don't control strange stray thoughts.
Even my delusions aren't as vivid.
This is due to hormonal changes as I age.
I'm greatly bothered by absence
of family, treasured friends...and lovers.
I mean all those I myself have loved,
platonically or otherwise. I do not tout
a rapid end to life. Despite discomfits,
it's much better to be alive --- save
for agonizing pain -- than to be
unrevivably dead. Living in others'
memories is poetic but isn't an
incentive for terminal departure.
I've listed my unpoetic opinion.
I encourage all: live life. Have no thought
or wish to speed its end. Nonexistence
is permanent, ever looming -- unavoidable.
Live and derive pleasure and some worth
from our unique (but very common) human
process of growth and aging. At all its stages
life's much more than paltry preparations for
an ending. We are lucky to be old, human, organically
still viable. Live with the intent to thrive!
With But Words
Lungs of time
Forever purging yesterdays fever and chills
clueless of ether's match for now
today's fresh intake of memories waiting
no longer a calm awakening
our ears await the sound
By chance
While morning may coughing bring
sending dream's breath asunder
caring not for the sparrow's retreat from sill
or the disturbed peace of
last nights pages at rest
We stir
How vacuous early hours may seem
as thought takes leave of dreaming's insistent clatter
begging caffeine's amorous embrace
even as inhaling ingests wakeful elements aroused
Soon
The pen is lifted
greeting Mind's quiet place
that realm where magic releases wonder
asking for voices yet explored
Patiently
Our unspoken words
our unwritten thoughts
awaiting vision's full awakening
take flight with the uptake some call
the Ah Hah moment of gratitude
We lean forward
The pen lifted
timely resonance delivers
today's sustenance
tomorrow's next pages
perhaps future's chance to ruminate
There was something about her smile that said something is not right.
Or that I am a pigeon; or that I am not totally on task or very bright.
But I am slow on the uptake, so I said I would meet her brother Low-grr.
I did not realize until he appeared with roses that he is a green ogre.
Not the color difference that surprised me and made me cringe.
But the predatory twinkle in his brown eyes that gave me a hard twinge.
I felt him looking me up and down, and I felt a tremor for sure.
I knew at the end of the night I would be lucky to remain chaste or pure.
He is more handsome than the ordinary pink and brown guys I date.
More entertaining too; I knew I had truly met my glorious fate.
I took him home to meet the family and my grandma let out a scream.
The best lover I ever had was the same color as his green!
She was almost never this honest, so the family began to laugh.
Except, she added, that one time I dated a very well-hung giraffe.
My father’s face got dark and redder than I have ever seen.
Grandma is something else now that she’s an Alzheimer’s Queen.
Lighten up! My mother said. She is open to all kinds of stuff.
Being a doctor has made her much stronger, kind of tough.
Daddy could not stop blushing, but Ogre made him feel better.
He said, “Tell me about your best-looking Christmas sweater.”
Low-grr and I ended up being best friends, not lovers at all.
But we walk around the town and talk, and our talk is not small.
He asks about my grandma from time to time, because he is a great guy.
He truly is the best listener my girlfriend Jean said with a sigh.
So, I set them up on a date, and she married him straight away.
They both liked the set up; their wedding was happy and gay.
My grandma came and said some stuff that embarrassed my Dad.
But it was still the best time as maid of honor that I have ever had.
The intellectual mind runs deep in disease receptors.
With mental illness rampant, the blitzkrieg type firing countless uptake inhibitors.
Even with this life altering handicap that suffocates the disabled brain so blind.
Intelligence is beyond that of 90% of humans, and learning is simply ahead from behind.
Genius in his own right, gifted with knowledge and filth flows with ease.
Subconscious of the masses, thousands of lives of men and cree`s.
Yet the intellectual suffers the sorrows of generations of pain.
Intuitive of much knowledge, in tune with the motions and wisdom gained.
What is immensely difficult for most humanity, for him it`s simply just attained.
Anything that comes in view of thoughts, logic and reasons are engraved,
Memories deep like the ocean's depths, some could say it's a plaque.
Yet if you understand this side of satisfaction, then you have been reincarnated from the grave.
No acknowledgement could be
commensurate nar e'er
equivalent to countless years (scores of orbitz
of unexplored wonder) – left...
(with millstones around neck)
to atrophy on severe truncated
limb mitts, now cause
for silent lachrymose as this
brother doth brook a wake
his pained self actualization
(particularly predicated on
decade number six
unavoidably approaching) uptake
analogous to 2001 A Space Odyssey,
when closing scene
of the film - image of embryonic
"Starchild" left a slake
king unshakable reverberation
Also Sprach Zarathustra
echoing in me noggin since
opening soundtrack did quake
of a much younger self, when seeing
the movie did overtake
puzzlement until I read the book
"aha" awareness did make
that minor mystery resolved, and
now childhood's end keepsake
recalled as the time thy vulnerable
psychological state did intake
pelting asteroid storm cratering a boy
who shied away, to forsake
growing up, and now haunted (akin
to ghost of Marley) not "FAKE"
shackled to an un freed spirit, that
got squelched as if a sudden brake
got jammed propelling this then puny
body electric...now doth ache.
"A hand reaches for the unveiled and that’s the child’s mind.”
- Quote by Poet
The child’s mind is a camera,
It captures the day’s events down to the smallest details,
None seldom passes by,
Not even the one that escapes like a fly.
The child’s mind is a book,
In it, every event is written,
As dawn opens the door and twilight closes it,
As the clock ticks setting the stage for the events to emerge.
The child’s mind is a meadow,
It blossoms as the elements aid an uptake of the soul’s food,
It shrivels when scorched by the desert’s heat,
Awakened by the summons of the unseen.
The child’s mind is a boat,
Happy to sail but frightened by the storm,
It sees other boats a distance away,
Focused, it goes on its journey.
The child’s mind is a road,
It goes through the forest observing and understanding,
It tunnels through the night in search of light,
It ends where stars cease to shine.
October 4, 2024.
So brightly lit, my birthday cake.
Such icing-on-dessert uptake.
My Autumn years illumined flight,
October with effulgent light.
Candy corn, shaped like fangs, I eat.
Orange-yellow, Brach’s honey-sweet.
Smiles, blinking pumpkin, in the night.
October with effulgent light.
The crisp and thrash, of pretty leaves.
The grandkids’ beat; my heart receives.
Plenipotent sound of the night -
October with effulgent light.
The cold, fresh air and bonfire smoke;
The colorful lanterns and folk.
Big, bright and red - the Hunter’s moon.
October with effulgent light.