Long Urged Poems
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The same striking man, the same lush, green land,
cushioned and delighted her heart in sleep.
Her romantic dream of senses was most grand
unless repeated fears began their slow, dark creep;
drowning and stabbing frights would often expand.
She would then wake, shaken, and try to understand.
This consistent dream had always just been.
Each night, the familiar reel repeated
with new chapters unfolding now and then.
Six sweet, white roses were never deleted
and repeatedly appeared at her dream’s end -
always pure white of a love intense blend.
She touched the new, glossy travel brochure,
ran her fingers along the pictured tree,
reminding herself that she was quite sure
it was the same tree her sleeping eyes did see.
This tree of certain enchanting allure
is what urged on her travel towards tomorrow's tour.
**********************************************
The guide led her slowly to the charming tree.
Its presence moved her into a faint-type sway.
When her trance-like eyes finally broke free
they took in surrounding nature’s breathtaking array,
and paused at her dream recalled mound of clay
where six, white roses lay in a love intense display.
Visibly shaken, the guide sat her gently down.
Sitting, too, he began sharing an ancient tale.
“Centuries agone, the prince loved a poorly
maiden from town. Family, foes and doctrine bid
this love to fail. They eloped, cloaked by soft darkness
draped all around. He wore armor and his beauty wore
her plain gown.”
“They returned after six love-days of bliss.
Only hours back 'fore his true love vanished.
No sign, no clue, the prince sought all amiss
and threatened the guilty would be banished.
The prince finally found her in the sea’s mist
with stab wounds he would not ever dismiss.”
“He buried his love and also a spell in this clearing.
He left no marker but a white rose for each day
he and his wife had shared perfect, loving, pairing.
So sure his spell would bring her near with love revered,
he vowed to watch over her grave using spell's sway
and to join her within three moons after she appeared."
The guide asked, “how much longer do you plan to stay?”
She glowed, “I must linger at least three moons after today.”
From the epic poem, EOS; verse, 7308-7350
by Sir Titus Llewellyn, unpublished
Book ii - Bouquet with Love
Enter Asha - Junior Psychiatric Nurse
& William - Sufferer of schizophrenia
William speaks to Asha as she reads the book
he has written for her........, as you are doing.
William
How dusk has drawn suspicion from your eyes
these visits have become the long lost friend
who writes without reply - that's no surprise
the way I am adoring you, so don't pretend.
hesitates.......
I find that from a patients point of view
ideas are being listened with fondness for
returning, makes believe this has an end
I cannot help but trust you anymore.
gives her the book...
Pursue the words I've left with you in my will
a token of my love in words I cherish,
following the realms that often still
believe in you and care as much until..........
Asha
I have no time to listen - indeed read
the ridicules of someone you'll replace
who disappears tomorrow without trace.
silent pause...
Another cryptic message I'll not need.
William
Just read the words and feel it with your heart.
Decipher what you can without the pledge,
my writing has preferred and having had
a hope in hells chance pulling it apart,
gliding worse, the fate along a knife-edge.
Asha
I'll treasure what appears to be much work,
the task that your imprisonments have purged
preventing ways and means the seethings urged
a while back knowing often, how berserk
your actions were and how this book immerged.
Cannot a tear sufficient to your need
be borrowed like the journey of lost cause,
another real life story, feelings plead
when giving back the care my feeling was?
Tries to kiss her!
I have to go - how dare you do such things
my care, and least devotions are disgraced
the length of duty caring for you placed!
GET REAL!-
needing my mother is a fear I can do without,
Not you! I miss her so much!
Asha exits
William, (bringer of bad news?)
I know - I have bad news and this you'll find,
in time, when superstitions fill with hate
a sentinel of words - what sounder mind,
could echo truth when all that I create
is gifted not a curse but mere sedate.
Slumber from which all our dreams debate.... (pause)
It lingers while this love sustains as time
And sleeps while we awake no time at all.
She sprinted through a rugged woods
Away from free loading fathers and filthy no-goods,
Away from tear soaked teddy bears and lungs filled with smoke.
She found herself unmoving, crying in the arms of a weeping willow oak.
She is what remains of a fractured household,
A rotten tapestry of liquor stains, bruised bodies, and secrets untold.
She imagined what lied beyond the waterfall of misery that cascaded infinitely over her,
For she was stuck observing the world in a melancholy blur
Her blistered ankles fell weak and she crumpled towards the ground,
Peering up at a glistering light that left her wonderstruck, spellbound
She made out the shape of a body descending from above
They gazed at each other, her eyes as doleful as a mourning dove
He whispered in her ear as softly as the whistling wind,
Leaving her once perpetually dark world seeming only to be dimmed
He held out his hand to her and urged her to run away
To a place called Neverland, a world where all somber thoughts are kept at bay.
Though it seemed of her to be giving in to her broken mentality,
She longed for an escape from pain and poison personality.
As they floated above her home town,
She suddenly couldn't hear bottles shattering or doors breaking down.
She felt the pain lift from her small frame,
And the inferno of sadness that burned interminably was but a flickering flame.
They sailed across the second star to the right and flew straight on ‘till morning
She hadn't prepared for the wondrous sight before her that came with no warning
She broke through clouds that brushed her face with cotton candy kisses,
The world of true happiness and ephemeral sunshine was once real only in her wishes.
It was in the land of everlasting childhood that she was freed of all regrets,
And she held flowers between her fingers instead of cigarettes
Her face was flushed with shades of pink instead of black and blue,
And she decided it was time to write her story anew.
That night she traded her tattered nightgown for rags and a dirty fur coat,
She chose put her past in a bottle and set it afloat.
In that moment she could feel her true identity come unbound,
They called her Lost Girl, but in that moment she never felt more found.
Take The Dagger From My Heart, Please -2- Poetry Contest
N/A- 100 in a ROW contest--15 9/24/16
THE BRIGHT ROAD
I looked down a wide, bright road, and as I looked around
There was so much attracting me, and so much good I found.
The lights and scenery seemed so good, yet something deep inside
Said, “This is not the road for you, though it is bright and wide.”
Still something urged me travel on--was it the others there?
Or was it curiosity that caused me not to care?
Or was it what some others said about that wide, bright way?
Oh, I could blame them all, I guess, for why I went astray.
But I chose to walk that bright road, and soon its path became
A darker road than what it was, yet it seemed just the same.
By now I was so used to it, I did not seem to see
The dangers, snares, and misery that still awaited me.
For many days, yes, many years that wide, bright road I trod
Ignoring warnings that I heard from preachers and from God.
Then one day when I finally grew so weary from the way,
I bowed upon my knees with tears and humbly I did pray.
Then I was shown a narrow way on which I was to go,
It did not have the scenery that I had grown to know.
It did not have the lights and thrills that sin had offered me,
Yet I was told if I would walk that road I would be free.
Now many times that wide, bright road with me will intersect
And tempt me once again with thrills that I now so regret.
I know about that road’s sad end, and now my heart will ache
When some I know who walked with me will make a sad mistake.
They’ve looked again at that same road, its signs and lights have seen,
And thinking it’s a different road, not one like where they’d been,
They choose to walk that wide, bright road; yet some day they will see
It turn again to a dark end, just like it did for me.
Now I could blame my curious mind, or I could blame some friends
Who came to me at that bright road, its glories to defend.
And you, perhaps, could find someone or something else to blame
For why you’re on this wide, bright road, but it’s futile, just the same.
For really it is all our choice which road we walk today,
The straight and narrow, broad and wide, on which one we will stay.
If you are on that wide, bright road upon which once I trod,
Won’t you, like me, come back to walk the narrow road with God?
He’s waiting at the corner of Humility and Prayer
To help you walk that narrow road, for He’ll be always there.
~ My Primary Emotion~
Three days ago I decided to become heartless by
eliminating my Spirit and Soul I could not take
the agony anymore.
I urged my lawyer to come, he looked at me and
asked, what is wrong? Gazing at him said,
I don't regret committing that felony against them
I need to be punished lets go to court.
Having no reaction, looking disoriented he
opened the door walked me to his car & drove
to court.
Standing opposite the judge I stared at
him bluntly, he was reviewing my report
looked at me ushered to sit in the box
to be persecuted.
The defense lawyer aware of my crimes
seemed intrigued and asked, madam
what caused you to retaliate against your
Spirit & Soul?.
I needed to disrupt their thoughts which
turned against me, the chaos in my brain
became unbearable, exhausted by their
discussions aggravated my strength
weakened me, my whole body was
antagonizing, intentionally forcing my
thoughts to become heartless, merciless
when I attacked them.
Both profited from my kindness my
patience, my healing was not responding,
needing some peace to pray for a miracle
as my young brother today is near death,
cancer of the lungs, he`s getting colder by
the minute, not eating, not socializing, alone,
my tears were overflowing beyond control,
when I heard a friendly whisper coming from
my Heart crying, enough is enough your thoughts
need to stop to allow yourself recognize wrath is
unbearable, your sorrow is taking you nowhere,
wait for the diagnosis.
Out of compassion the judge set me free
my kindness befriended my Spirit & Soul
together we went back home. Waiting.
I was surrounded by them knowing
ahead of me will be the longest night
I will ever experience in years, because
I was determined to stay awake
for that call.
The echo of the ringer came louder than usual
we heard this message!
Minutes ago he was wide awake
Minutes ago his heart tore him away
minutes ago his casket was carried astray
minutes ago underground he will lay.
Minutes ago I wished him an endless
goodbye with a sigh.
My friends held me step by step walked
me to bed covered me up stayed until I had
no more tears to shed.
Those were my emotions for today. Grieving
over the loss of my young brother. Sadness.
Therese Bacha
2/4/2013
Contest of Dan Williams. Primary Emotion Today..
I'm so far gone that I'm telling the truth. It sounds like a foreign language. "Richard Peck"
Each living being has a birth-to-death cycle,
Existence is steered by pulses above our feeble,
Despite our tries, time neither ceases nor boosts,
This realism cannot be expanded to our disputes.
We dwell on our wildest foe, messing with posterity,
Is a thrilling, extraordinary occurrence a fatuity?
Sustain the flames that compel the plight of blankness,
Our egocentric disease of vanishing into nothingness.
Every day, people ponder why mankind is failing,
Those urged by audacity and vicious whys are winning,
Children lack pride and excitement for our success,
Murder is slaying us, and we will enrage and obsess.
We face conflicts to savor a wise sequel and be joyful,
However, we've lost sight and must now pay the toll,
We're unstable, yet hinder by our moral actions,
Sustain us cease abusing superfluous objects as weapons.
God, assist us to view our guilty scruples and insets?
Or would the blood pour in and suffocate us as insects?
Once we've gone this far, would we anticipate praise?
We are cursed to grip the awful facts of the next days.
In all honesty, we've gone fairly far in this game,
People react angrily, their emotions all the same,
I doubt we'll be spared from the hateful looks,
As I dread, has hate charred our skin and snooks?
I implore you, God, is this world genuinely gone?
Is it trite to assert that we are sure that far gone?
What insane quest? What is our escape strategy?
What kinds of spirits? What kind of mad analogy?
I'm absurdly far gone to envision, and it's spun,
I'm overly far gone to ever forget what've done,
I've split every one of my ties and none staying,
Too far to fall, too much trouble for straying.
Why don't you call or write your mother?
They're waiting; don't behave in an odd rougher,
Were you attempting to demonstrate something?
This year's vocalist is a dancer of promising.
I no longer fear infinity, meadows, and rivers,
Time is dying in the splendid light of the future,
The key wheel is pivoting in the opposite heading,
The waves spread, and the coming ocean is speeding.
Written: July 04, 2022
Pick-A-Title, Vol 31 Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
THE COLOR OF THE WIND WHICH IS WEDDED TO WINTER’S MUSE AND
MUSIC
What, color is music?
Is it the color of your lover’s eyes as you wade at water’s edge?
Or more like the colors you view when a child’s giggle makes you young again?
Then again, they could be muted colors…………………….
opaque in nature,
but suddenly you breathe on them and alas they glow once more
Royal colors crowned and crowded with admirers who stand in awe of hues hewn with
precision
Yet if I had to make a decision
I would be urged to opine that music is the color of enjoyment enveloping this entire
planet which could be in peril
Allow the music of***laughter to echo through the deepest tunnels and over every
triumphant mountain
Or music could be the color an artiste must employ to duplicate a reflection of joy
which intrudes and reaches into one’s soul and tells you that no matter what, be
content with that which you were blessed to own,
And never fill your cup to overflow with the color of greediness or music made to
grieve
Music is not, of course the color of anger or jealousy
As for me I am making music my master who advises me to do things zealously
For after all, where would i be without the magic of music in the middle of madness
at midnight?
Whatever color music is I know it’s has to be majestically and brilliantly bright
Yet cannot deafen us to all but mellow melodies
That’s it
Music is the color of a mid-August breeze
when heat un-heavies your heart and music gives birth to ease
Music is blue as that breeze which gently blew
While Mrs. Levy’s laundry sways as it clings to a rope,
suspended on the serenity of a symphony sewn of silk
Music is the color of everything built and born of beauty that belies the notion that
an emotion is nay a color as well
And oh how much music is there in the vociferous voice of one single bell
Music is the color of a hundred pipers piping as their numbers increase
Music is made when a war has cause to cease
Therefore music must be the color of peace
© 2011.…. the indupitably prolific poet who, in a short time should be named
poet lauriet of this site....me.....phreepoetree
*t...* take the word “laughter” and make an “S” be the first letter before “L”
I woke long before he did,
quietly slipped from his side
and donned his warm woolen robe.
As difficult as 'twas to leave him,
to have awakened him—
I'd never have been able
to leave his bed.
This morning, what I sought
was not his heart to please,
but what I saw in a dream
that held me captive until I woke.
And now, I had to see for myself
if the vision that stirred me in sleep
was in truth where I knew it would be.
Quietly, I stirred the fire
to keep warm his bedroom
now that my body would not warm his.
Down the wide stairway treads,
I tiptoed to the door leading to his garden.
Snow had lightly fallen o'er night
and everything within sight
had been covered with crystals of frost.
I felt as if I was lost in a wonderland,
but only for a moment
for I had to find what my dream rendered.
I surrendered to the need to see
what my reverie urged me to seek—
the last rose of summer.
Petals, once velvet to my touch
had fallen from other flowers
and lie frozen on the walkways—
their color faded and gone, all but one.
Through the archway, I walked to find her,
still in bloom but in the sullen gloom
of this chilled hoarfrost morn,
I mourned for her as she stood alone.
I sat on the bench nearest her,
a tear caught in the corner of my eye
threatening to fall. A sigh
escaped my lips as I reached
to touch her with a fingertip
but feared I'd be the cause of
her demise if my touch broke her.
I felt his warm hands on my shoulders,
but not a word did he need speak.
He sat beside me and at last,
warms tears ran down my cheeks.
It was the last rose of summer in my dream.
How quickly time had flown from bud to bloom
and now she was withered, near her end.
Her blush, once beautiful—
had paled and soon she would fall
to the garden soil— still beautiful to me.
Her kindred companions had met their demise
but to life she clung, alone except for me
and the man who quietly sat by my side.
I had no desire to hide anything from him—
He led me inside and back to bed,
for he knew I dreaded seeing the moment she fell
among the dropped petals of her sisters.
Beside me he stayed, as sleep closed my eyes.
This man, who knew me so well—
the garden keeper; keeper of my heart.
*With apologies to Thomas Moore
We need to remember our heritage and the reason we celebrate the 4th of July.
Have you ever wondered what happened to the 56 men who signed the Declaration of Independence? Their story. . .
Five signers were captured by the British as traitors, and tortured before they died.
Twelve had their homes ransacked and burned.
Two lost their sons serving in the Revolutionary Army; another had two sons captured.
Nine of the 56 fought and died from wounds or hardships of the Revolutionary War.
They signed and they pledged their lives, their fortunes, and their sacred honor.
What kind of men were they?
Twenty-four were lawyers and jurists.
Eleven were merchants.
Nine were farmers and large plantation owners; men of means, well educated.
But they signed the Declaration of Independence knowing full well that the penalty would be death if they were captured.
Carter Braxton of Virginia, a wealthy planter and trader, saw his ships swept from the seas by the British Navy. He sold his home and properties to pay his debts, and died in rags.
Thomas McKeam was so hounded by the British that he was forced to move his family almost constantly. He served in the Congress without pay, and his family was kept in hiding. His possessions were taken from him, and poverty was his reward.
Vandals or soldiers looted the properties of Dillery, Hall, Clymer, Walton , Gwinnett, Heyward, Ruttledge, and Middleton.
At the battle of Yorktown, Thomas Nelson, Jr., noted that the British General Cornwallis had taken over the Nelson home for his headquarters. He quietly urged General
George Washington to open fire. The home was destroyed, and Nelson died bankrupt.
Francis Lewis had his home and properties destroyed.
The enemy jailed his wife, and she died within a few months.
John Hart was driven from his wife's bedside as she was dying.
Their 13 children fled for their lives. His fields and his gristmill were laid to waste. For more than a year he lived in forests and caves, returning home to find his wife dead and his children vanished.
So, take a few minutes while enjoying your 4th of July holiday and silently thank these patriots. It's not much to ask for the price they paid.
Remember: freedom is never free!
Turtle heard that Salt Woman was on the road again, and he was
wanting a taste of her. Some miles from Cochiti, he stopped
for directions at a Speedway gas station.
The dwarf who ran the garage could not speak, but Turtle
using the language of Sandhill cranes put a spell on him,
making him dance directions. The dwarf’s jerky movements
became more fluid as Turtle urged him to relate more of the
Salt Woman.
In these parts, Salt Woman had a rep. She traveled
with a wooden puppet that she called her grandson.
When she came to a pueblo she would ask for food for
the boy. Some villages offered her food from the communal
storehouse, and she would bless their store with her tears,
while her grandson grew green leaves on the top of his wooden
head, but in some pueblos the mayor would refuse to offer
anything. Salt women would then turn the children of the village
into chaparral jays.
Turtle figured that the garage dwarf was just a fool, but he knew
that a salty woman was worth finding, and so he drove on following
her trail. Sure enough he found her in a bar in the Acoma
settlement known as Sky City.
Her grandson was with her. Turtle took a good look at Salt Woman.
She was not young, her face was lined, but her hips were as round
as fat babies, her belly dimpled, rosy, and delectable. The wooden
child’s eyes opened wide as he watched Turtle walk up to the bar.
Turtle was looking fine in his rhinestone studded jeans, his tan ruby
fringed shirt and his white, eagle-feathered Stetson.
Ordering tequila, he turned to the woman.
"Will you give me one of your tears, mother"? He asked.
"I have a thirst that can only be cured by a greater thirst".
Salt Woman looked at Turtle:
"And what will you give me in return"?
"I will share my salt with you," turtle replied honestly.
"The same as any man then," she said with a curling lip.
"Yes mother, but my salt will make you younger,' turtle lied.
Turtle will promise anything for sex, in this he is no better
than most men.
Salt Woman laughed out loud, yet a teardrop of sadness fell into
Turtle’s tequila. In a flash Turtle drank it down, grabbed hold of
the boy transforming him to a crane, then he took Salt Woman
upstairs where they tasted their thirst – again and again.