Long Vaulting Poems
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I am a bird in space
despite not having my wings depicted
I possess strength, speed, and vigor,
coupled with delicate beauty.
I give the notion of gliding.
My hidden inner, reality, is devoid of all individual features.
I am a bird, a sleek abstraction of flight,
my form is as intrinsic as Nature itself.
It suggests grace, aspiration,
in the spirit of, potency, and yet beauty,
just as any bird does.
As suggested in my ability, I extend through soaring air,
that draws to eternity of flight through the skies.”
Smooth and polished in my reflective luminosity.
So elegant and vertical, is my subtle tapering form
and symmetrical outline,
the very essence of my creation.
Through time extended and the climax strikes, I am more than nine feet tall.
Expressing nuanced evolutions, I have grace, in the spirit of freedom.
A wave of energy vaulting up from the ground
with an inspiring upward accelerating motion.
Everything represents something, even if it only represents itself.
I am an elephant or Republican I think
After a couple of drinks
If memory serves me I'm pink
When not frolicking on the savanna
Pushing down trees for a snack
I work in a circus act
This place smells like a zoo
I'm getting too old and put on some pounds
It is hard to climb trees these days
Or ladders to success
Pole vaulting is out of the question
Circus food sucks
They say you are what you eat
I must be very tiny from the stuff that they feed me
Peanuts are very nutritious but small
My keepers want to keep me lean
They think that I'm stupid and make fun of my feet
If they are small than something else must be small
Accusing me of peeing myself on stage is the last straw
They say my brain is the size of the food that I eat also
I'm sick of them too
Vegetables and fruits are delirious…. or is it delicious
I forget how I got in this circus zoo mess
Why do I have a big E on the pajamas
Perhaps to identify me while in bed
Or to avoid common confusion with them
I know you think that I wrote it myself
But my feet are too large for that
Someone must have printed it
A political party perhaps
If you ask me what I think
The elephant in the room not called Trump is me
After the rain, a stillness is seen
Before the nightfall, a fleeing gleams
Calmly approaching, a soft kiss of sleep
Deeper diving, a taste of slumber keeps
Echoing sounds, a whisper is heard
Falling towards, a calming touch confers
Gently following, a spirit sublime
Hearing soothing melodies, a point in time
Into a dream state, a honeycomb of thoughts abound
Jumping around, a stipple of dots resound
Keeping a few snippets, a picture appears
Lowering my eyes, a crisp clarity is clear
Moving beyond my mind, a power invites
Never imagining a state of seeing such sights
Overcome with anticipation that swells within
Pursuing yet remaining, a revelation begins
Quietly stepping onto a path I see
Racing emotions exist deep in me
Still shaking, a walk I begin
Towards wonders without end
Unknown energy waves surround
Vaulting me forward along the ground
Whispers of solace inside me I hear
Exposing mysteries, now are so clear
Yet I not do tremble, nor do I fear
Zoning inside, embracing what is near
(8/12/12)
We are gathered here together
To make this world better.
Athletes from every nation
Participating in this celebration.
Everyone with a goal in mind
To leave their mark at this time.
It mattered not if it was swimming
Pole vaulting , running ,volley ball
In the water or on the land
They was there to take a stand.
Then I stop and think and in complete awe
How this world gets together to reach a score.
All problems are forgotten at this particular time
As they cross the finish line.
If we can do this for this short spell
Then we should send these problems
All to hell.
Many walked away with smiles on their faces
And some with tears in their eyes , and not
Because they didn’t try.
The OLYMPICS come every four years
And they start training at a very young age
Just so they could climb up that two foot step
So that a judge can put a medal around their neck.
They do this for their own gratification
And to be honored by their nation.
To feel the joy that this event brings
Just like a ball player who gets that ring.
I salute you one and all -you have reason to stand tall.
Part 2 - The Great Fire of London, 1666
Just think of a town, put up with no plan,
where people build houses wherever they can.
The streets twist and dip, hugging ditches and streams,
and safety's a thing of which nobody dreams.
There aren't any rules, or best practices, codes,
regulations, fire stations, no hydrants or nodes.
The street where you live has no concrete, just clay,
and it's narrow, foul-smelling, and no light of day
can squeeze in. Your ground floor is brick-built and stout,
but your upstairs is flimsy and jetties right out,
almost touching your neighbour's. You thus form a tunnel
through which rats, cats and faeces can constantly funnel.
Well, come with me now to meet Thomas and Jane,
who live, work and worry in just such a lane:
it's always called "Pudding", which gives us a clue -
for baking is what all the people here do.
September the second, the year sixty-six,
and Old Mother Nature's been up to her tricks:
we haven't seen rain since the start of the war,
and timbers are shrinking, and drier than straw.
Tom's oven malfunctions. The house catches fire.
Our instinct, in peril? To try to get higher.
Tom, Jane, the children, and Sukie, the maid
(Sukie is thirteen, and very afraid)
climb out on the roof. Oh, the smoke and the heat!
The roof tiles are baking, and hurting our feet!
We've all got to jump to the roof to our left:
but don't glance below as you're leaping the cleft!
But Sukie can't do it. It's asking too much.
She'll be the first to be killed by the Dutch.
The signals aren't vaulting across her synapses.
She's lost from our sight when the storey collapses.
Four days blazed this greatest of all conflagrations,
engulfing some thousands of poor habitations
and scores of old churches, whether timber or stone.
The tally of people will never be known.
A square mile of ruin. A city destroyed.
A blackened and acrid and comfortless void.
Saint Paul's is a shell, its rubble still smoking.
But who is that gentleman, measuring, poking?
With the wakened desire eerie, to be something,
It overgrows soon to be and have all-- everything;
The inner drive mounts a crazy tipsy horse clever,
Closes not on the unjust chase nor the goal ever
But for sure gets into too complex a confusion
That cannot find the fruition,lost in the delusion
A look back: and there is a huge, vast ruffled lot
Delinking time,space and the intent with each trot
Gone away are those that breathed full and wild,
Strong and firm against mind's all prompts mild,
With the darting strides sprinted with the gallop:
Somewhere in the dark corner of hope,all call up
Fostered,it grows fast ,certain only to disorder,
Distort the well cherished mettle yond the border;
The self overgrows toa monster,senseless of all:
The good and the noble,distant kith or kin, or pal;
One might loudly recall those tall conquests futile
And the great falls to the nadir in a bit short while
Love of truth
the very light of Greece
A peninsula thrust out
like a bony hand,
‘God-tormented Greece,’
Zeus exclaimed,
“I shall give man ‘an evil,’ as the price of fire:
They will clasp destruction with laughter of desire.”
The Gods live on-even though obscure.
Fate rules them too, as Zeus learns
the heroes must die; and the greater
the heroism the earlier the death.
Greece being, itself so divided
between the rational and irrational,
between logic and instinct,
between the scientific and the magical,
between the state of self possession
and that of being possessed,
and one can continue……
between symmetry and diversity,
between the recognition of limits
and the pursuit of the limitless,
between restraint and vaulting ambitions,
or hubris, Pythagoras in all his wisdom
could achieve no resolution or harmonia.
Of all these diverse elements, what was
greatest in him, and in Greece,
was the recognition of these conflicts
for what they were…….
that by grappling with them
a better order in life might then arise.
Prisoner mortally confined,
plotting your escape like Papillon,
conceiving freedom like a zoo animal.
Then dreaming on,
you meet a flying child in all your mirrors.
Nearly weightless, pulled in every gale,
lifted like a kite,
catapulted high over every trail.
Then dreaming on,
you are the drafty power of your path,
the easy elevation of your flight.
This embedded skill is never forgotten.
Deep within the hippocampus,
your winged Poseidon,
the flying child in all your mirrors.
Then dreaming on,
soaked in sleep, reverie’s seahorse.
Flying child,
free of worldly constraints,
free of torment and angst,
free in oceans and skies,
your tourist anima continues vaulting.
But then, eyes open in the dim grimness,
You remember this cell,
these sad limits of the corporeal.
Yet, how is it that your dreams know more?
Prisoner mortally confined.
Accepted for Publication: The Opiate Journal, spring 2023
Everyone owns a piece,
a furrowed canopy casting dimness and light,
a measureless magnitude of rapture and defeat.
We are Prince Andrew at the battle of Austerlitz,
on our backs surveying boundless lofty firmament.
surrendering to tranquil silent drifts of stratocumuli,
finding our meagerness within the scale.
In temperamental squalls,
tormenting dark wrinkles restless with despair,
fling violent raindrops, hurtling us into prolonged deluge.
But pale aqua cloudless expanses befriend us,
our golden reanimated childhoods,
our glowing ripening renewals,
our blithe, balmy afternoons.
Beneath starlight’s vaulting,
where we rejoin our secret selves,
where waltzing and weeping are partners,
where laughter and grief cohabit.
The doctors have pills for this.
Tablets paint our ceilings and plaster our cracks.
The opiates topple our towers,
Even sorrow is pickpocketed in our torpor.
We have lost our stake in the macrocosm
when the lyrics of our anima are flattened.
Our acclimation to the Santa Ana winds
is our claim,
our title to be pummeled in airspace.
Detox is our emancipation,
unleashing the motion of our atmosphere,
we inhale our azure and indigo.
It is needed to play percussion,
to thrive in rhythms of life’s glory.
Published The Opiate Mag. 04/2019
Season after season brings not much change,
As I find myself entrapped within the same odds,
And find life rather dry, and those around still strange;
Still I’m lonely at heart, and inconsolable in the soul.
The few things I held dear in my youth,
Have taken a flight outta the windows of life
And left open wounds that no balm can soothe,
And vaulting voids no filler can fill.
I have lost much of my juvenile taste for life,
And I’m left to merely get along day after day,
Still eagerly willing to see what strife
Awaits incurable deep thinkers such as Willy and I.
I once was honest in turning away the society of friends
Though they called me a recluse and manifold such,
But now when I fake to be affable my heart tends
To loathe the thinning thoughts of otherwise innocent men.
I always feel myself a stranger in the world,
Yearning for a more sublime planet and not earth,
Where the wings of mercy are ever unfurled;
Where poetry is yet unwritten, and fine songs are still unsung.