Long Vaulting Poems
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This is a true story- no names have been changed to protect the idiot........
Nb- * - a car bonnet is a hood in the United states.
** - censored.
On my way back from the pub
(since real ale is my passion)
slowly wending my way home
in a wibbly-wobbly fashion
in the road sat something small-
I almost passed it by,
camouflaged in darkness
by a cloudy moonless sky.
I could tell it was a Hedgehog
simply by it's silhouette,
and if it didn't move real soon
would get squashed flat, I'll bet.
Just then a hundred yards away
a pair of lights appeared
heading our way at a pace
exactly as I'd feared.
Instinct kicked in, and out I leapt
to the middle of the road
waving my arms frantically as
I switched to 'Hero' mode.
He hit the brakes just feet away
and wound his window down
"get out the way, you Prat!" he yelled
but I just pointed down, and said
"Hedgehog!!" (which he couldn't see,
his bonnet* was in the way),
"Just hang on while I shift it, mate"
was all that I could say.
So, bending down to rescue it
still sat between my feet
my heart sank as I focussed in
then finally missed a beat.
The Hedgehog I had risked my life
to save it by removing
was, in fact, from off a washing machine
a piece of rubber tubing.
Not wishing too look foolish
I just hid it with my sleeves
and slowly walked off to the kerb,
the car began to leave.
Angrily into the air I kicked the pipe before me,
a big mistake- in his rear view mirror
the car driver he saw me,
and hit the brakes, then jumped out yelling
( I remember, although quite plastered)
"That's cruelty to an animal! Come here, you heartless person** !
In hot pursuit back up the road
he came- the chase was on,
I wasn't going to hang about, in seconds I was gone,
vaulting over garden walls and dodging through the gates
then out of breath I hid myself, till he had gone, I'd wait.
Mud splattered with my trousers torn I reached home, panic over,
the ordeal I'd just been through was a great way to get sober.
So next time wildlife is in peril, maybe I won't hurry,
I'll carry on and stagger home-
let Mother Nature worry.
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?
In the City of Light, a new flame ignites
Olympic fire burns, burning bright nights
Paris springs to life, life in full swing
As champions spring forth, forth they spring
The Seine flows with dreams, dreams flow fast
Flowing with athletes from present and past
They run for gold, gold standard set
Running the banks where the sun has set
Towers of strength rise, rise to compete
Rising to challenges, challenges they meet
They vault over bars, bars set sky-high
Vaulting ambitions, ambitions fly
Swimmers stroke hope, hope strokes back
Stroking through waters, waters on track
They dive into glory, glory runs deep
Diving for medals they'll always keep
Cyclists pedal hard, hard roads ahead
Pedalling stories that'll be widely spread
They race against time, time races too
Racing hearts pound as they break through
Gymnasts balance dreams, dreams balance fate
Balancing acts that fascinate
They ring up scores, scores ring out loud
Ringing in victories that make nations proud
Boxers fight chance, chance fights back
Fighting spirits refuse to slack
They punch above weight, the weight of nations
Punching tickets to standing ovations
Archers aim, aim for the stars
Taking shots that push the bars
They draw the line, line between great and grand
Drawing gasps from fans across the land
Fencers parry time, time parries on
Parrying doubts till doubts are gone
They point to success, success points back
Pointing the way down victory's track
In this field of play, the play of words can't capture
Fields of dreams in rapture
The game is on, on goes the flame
Gaming the system of Olympic fame
Paris holds court, court of athletic kings
Holding the world as Olympia sings
A capital show, the show of human potential
Capital moments are essential
So let the games begin, begin anew
Gaming our senses with an Olympian view
For in Paris, par excellence reigns
Paris, where Olympic spirit never wanes
In the twilight,
Eilat, seems deserted, some Antofagasta,
Chile's North, before my eyes.
Bordering Jordan not far, there,
where the hills are tinted in blueish-grey,
at the horizon.
A solitary shadow, grey,
the harbour of Aqaba.
Small, distant houses,
scarcely illuminated by a
fading sun.
Some ships in the harbour,
towed side by side like toys.
I am crossing the plains,
some Macchia, some dry thornes,
and a firm sand, giving way to my footprints.
The border: barbed-wire,
sandy hills, a water drench,
with reed growing
in mouldy water.
Here a snake, there a coot,
some water-wagtails – and I,
the only silent creatures.
I scarcely leave any tracks in the sand.
Brilliant, crystals of salt in the
ridges, underneath, slippery, some soil.
I walk over cracked loam,
which is vaulting in edges,
flying off.
It crunches, when I cross it.
High above three planes
circle like big cranes in the evening sun,
flying close to the border.
Wind thrives through the reed,
which is respectfully bending.
There, to the left, an artificial hill,
a plateau, bolders, grey, arranged in a
triangle, and above, Israel's banner,
blue-white, the star of David
with colours already fading and -
some barbed-whire,
carelessly floating in the
wind.
Ahead of me a snake is sneaking off.
A water-wagtail not able to fly
is resting in my hands.
It is good to feel nature,
to inhale silence, to seem unreal,
slowly disappearing in the dark,
like the surrounding nature.
Night brakes slowly now,
with the cool wind from the North.
Stars, like shiny needles in the darkness
piercing the sky, covering me in silence.
My dreams are drifting,
yet caught in the past.
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 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.
From on high to the crowded corners
of the world's temples, castles, cathedrals
From frescoes by the hands of grand masters
or sculpted alongside leering gargoyles
cherubs look down from heavenly perches
Many myths abound about cherubs -
they direct desires, prompt passions,
hours to cherubs are lifetimes to us
When believers hear a bell rings
an angel has gotten its wings
Riding cumulus clouds in an aqua sky
Vaulting lightning bolts to earth
Shooting arrows into human hearts
Coyly cowering in naves, abiding deities' demands
Making mellow music, fulfilling dreams denied
When 12th century Gothic sculptors crafted
church cherubs, adoring peasants marveled at
how the honored the Eden Garden fable
By divine right they played their ancient antics
One 15th century cherub mused that
when Raphael painted him, it was
intended that his infantile face
would portray pure sanctifying grace
In 1946, George Bailey of Bedford Falls
had planned his own suicide
Angel Second Class Clarence
was charged with saving him -
after 293 years of wistful waiting,
Clarence would finally get his wings
The godly greet the "Power of Myth",
they know that "...the bell tolls for thee" -
pray, "Appeal to our better angels"
There are no wings for us mere mortals
Only believers hear those bells ring
So, in the vast domain of spirits and angels,
does it seem trivial to be concerned
whether or not a cherub has wings or not,
in the face of this world's "Pandemonium"?
Listen for the bell
Where Raleigh wrote on regal window pane
I will embark to swim
She warns me that the kelp will disdain
The journey hard and grim
But all because you call again, and call
Beyond the brim where ships enthralled
Have floundered, I am challenged to rise
And show nobility frugal fire of the eyes.
So here me dive from my high vaulted cliff
And splash salt waters sum
To the sky ... yeah, feel me the burning spliff
The chant of natal freedom
Moving through the clogging stream of despair
I am seeking shore because you are there
Making loud strokes so in the night you will hear
Broken shards of silence, love vaulting here.
O darn, how frigid cold the water frolics my skin
I did not weep all this alone
This ocean is the tears of all my friends and kin
O God hear me from your throne
Keep that rope of faith dangling down, something
In a man that mettles more than courage, she
Too the apple of your eye, lend us all your wing
I swim for redemption through your blood from Calvary.
Your eyes shall be the lighthouse of my weary soul
Your voice my fairest rise of tide
Out from the doldrums I put off despair for sun's gold
Swimming against the kelp of pride
But mark my strokes, the slant and set of my endeavor
Mark my belief ... a man earns only where he labors
And I understand that your role must make my surrender
Impossible ... the course I take is self sustained with rigors
Walls determine character, because those that
have something to hide will leave it behind walls.
The secret that hides goes deep internal...
but is trapped...screaming...mourning...trying to escape.
Her tears constantly seep...and seep...and seep
down her cheek, as shes demanding to grasp for air.
She's drowning...obliterating from her own tears...
drenching from her own soul...from her own mind,
as it wonders...wonders off at night...If maybe...just maybe
his mind examines such beauty. But as she arises,
hoping she shall encounter delicacy one day,
she questions from the deep pain
that strikes her brain...Is she in pain? Is she pain?
WHY SO MUCH DARN PAIN?!
Such beauty...such a curse that was built from a gift.
Keep vaulting... Keep vaulting, as she tells herself
when she's reaching for such victory.
She glances down and sees them...
the criminals...the ones who have killed...
the ones who have stabbed her in the back.
They such vile men as they walk the roads as cowards.
Performers are what they should become...
convincing the world their good...that the passion engulfing
their hearts is love...but no! no! their far from love. They
question "what is such a word?" Love...love...so complicating...
but such allure follows. The wall has punctured...as the voices
of wonder cast out...but yet she still wonders...of the world love.
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