Long Wakening Poems
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Purpose
By: Miracle Man
January 3, 2022
While floating through life, void of any calling,
each wakening day saw descent grow faster.
A hand reached down that could stymie my falling,
I then discovered the hand of the Master.
Since that glorious day things are not the same,
no longer I'm drifting through life without cause.
Now I'll never stop praising God's Holy name,
Cancer had my attention and made me pause.
Jesus said come forth from where sin has you bound,
I'll make your life's straits no longer seem so dire.
You won’t let Satan be able to confound,
Jesus used health to set my fields on fire.
Urban jungle roosters,
born-again scarecrow,
to untutored city eyes,
tawny pipit stonewall nester,
jet black Inca dove bereft,
of dovetail on a croque monsieur,
idle bone grub crawl,
mother hen to sandy brown,
and velvet bill gazer,
from an nearby creak,
recent rural migrant now,
a tree house side kick,
chickadee a late date sitter,
on this air flock beaky natter,
or tweet between the ice float,
edgy grey day species wield,
their sprightly ruffled feathers,
as an orthopaedic surgeon,
and their spatula when scraping,
rancid bark off windmill elm trees,
gastric bugle trenchermen ahoy,
while ogling a fellow common redpoll,
oh these tummy rumble diners,
will zoom in on every gourmet,
tangled wire mesh feeder station.
round and round they’ll fly,
on zesty mission beetroot,
a cock-eyed scavenger‘s delight,
are they siblings of a noble order?
white tale mountain bluebirds swopping,
habitat for granite boundary habit,
off key off discordant choirboys,
six sided snow bird chorus,
ear splitter for tardy wakening,
they cheep religiously as if,
their only valid creed was,
window squinting prayer meets
Why I Write Poetry
Miracle Man
3/14/2022
An assignment given when born again,
not something that I’d have chosen to start.
I had just been forgiven for previous sin,
when God placed this calling on my heart.
I later found that it kept my mind keen,
and I seek God’s help with words each day.
Through wakening bed thoughts I always glean,
but God doesn’t give me all that I say.
Anything resembling talent, I give God praise,
but at times, “self,” has been a stumbling block.
*It’s a vow I’ve made until the end of my days,
and a commitment I’ll keep until out of clock.
Sometimes during days when I’ve little to say,
I’m prompted to question, has God taken it away.
This journey began August 28, 1968
*Ecclesiastes 5:5
Better is it that thou shouldest not vow, than that thou shouldest vow and not pay.
Feeling again
Ice water floated stagnant misery in caustic veins coffin nails and razor blades
waited for the vultures of frosted lavish lava-daggers staring at the mirror with
no reflection other than the murderous screams numbed by images of tangled
ropes teasing from sunken rafts and twisted rafters train tracks guiding void
demise frozen blazing ashes suffocating feelings that cannot feel any longer when
moribund candles flickered reaped what had been lost submerged forgotten in eternity
This cess pit of smudged smeared convulsed spider web on death row of mindless
mind does not resemble what the Buddha meant when he or she insinuated
mindful nothingness Nirvana half starved but happy under the fig tree’s shadow
One step at a time barefoot when spirituality meant ‘Jonny Walker’ all waters
turned into whining wine homeless wandering under bridges of destruction
appeared to be at least some being tempted dissolution dancing rugged demise
at the cliff face of life living hell aneasthetised vanished meaning arrested river
flowing backwards to the Source a sprinkling spring temptation clothed in rags
and feathered tarnished nakedness tarred with just one brush the stroke of black
Lost figs composted marbles undergrowth of metamorphous germination alighted
when grapes turned into peaches mingling scented wakes of wakening blossoms
once icicles melted merged into tingling titillating finger-skin and fingertips searched
to join minds with souls and souls with minds and bodies touching senses feelings
intellectual pheromones oozing from the fruits of scented fragrance life togetherness
they formed a delta confluence new openings direction thrusts and trust and nurture
Many nights have passed since peaches’ revelation revolution formed scooping spoons
from moons and moons from spoons delicious rhythmic rhyming twines of poet trees
in living motion poetry and miracles suspended and conjoined at hips and minds
09th July 2016
“I am the way, the truth and the life.” Thus,
asserted God* Incarnate
Nourished with loving care while in His
earthly mother’s breast He Nestled…
Crucified was He to grant us eternal life by
His compassion as the Christ
Ascending to Heaven, confirming His power
midst resurrection Assurance
Redeemer is He, restoring believers with
rejuvenating Revival
Never forsaking believers, shielding them
as their faith He Nurtures
Always affirming gracious and glorious alarm
for divine pursuits’ Awakening
Triumphant toward celestial rapture filled
with praises and Thanksgiving
Exalting the Lord of lords and King of kings
Who reigns beyond Eternity.
*John 14:6 Jesus saith unto him, I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but by me.
May 7, 2024
3rd place, "This or That, Vol 25" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Edward Ibeh; judged on 5/16/2024
Late mid-life street woman she is...
I grew up with her under
mango trees now softly drooping
their shoulders much like hers.. but she,
still shaped like a Boticelli urn, wrapped
in arms diaphanous in flesh and heat,
fanned banana leaves swaying to
latin notes while cooking fried bamboo
shoots, her fragrance buzzing along
summer's exotic fly: how she pinched
my cheek with her tapered fingers still
wrinkled pink in grasses floating
on her quivering body.. .
somehow, she gave me this
epiphany of riding with my own instinct,
the slow wave of breaths gently drifting
through a young rosiness of my adolescent
stems... if i knew how to swirl in the wakening
glides of inner flow , it was her circling baked hips
winding and bellying in nights and morns
of her own natural sashays...
How i long to climb her mango tree,
her waxing then waning shape still
blazing among plucked banana leaves
of female revelry or finery… I tell myself,
there is no age when her contour sways
in places where her eyes dazzle
with her near floating, tanning limbs,
of how she made me feel unashamed
being just who I am without much caution
or youthful pride; humbled so by her inherent
moon-full grace…
©
... ..............
Skat's Contest---Any Old Poem #4
Written in tribute to William Wordsworths 'Daffodils'
Earth’s mantle slowly turns from white to green
As born of winter’s womb new life begins
Shoots grow, restoring colours to the scene
To herald Mother Earth’s awakening,
Who on arising casts off winter’s throw
Enlivened by the warmth of the sun’s first glow
Her wakening is welcomed by the trees
Who’ve stood for so long bleak against the sky
They feel her sweet caress within the breeze
That spirals ‘tween each branch as she goes by,
Boughs which once were barren, cold, and grey
Now blossom, as within her arms they lay.
The plenitude of Mother Earth abounds
As nature’s kisses fall in April showers
Rejuvenating seeds, laying dormant underground
Bringing forth a myriad of blossoming flowers,
Land once covered by a veil of white
Is now a mass of colour, fresh and bright
Fields and woodland brim with new creation
Who give thanks to Mother Earth for all her gifts,
Birds upon the wing sing exultations
As winter’s deep depression finally lifts
The last remaining shadows, eclipsed now by the sun
A sonorous proclamation that spring, at last, has come.
The natives are restless
They’re storming the gates
The jury is back:
All wretched ingrates!
The votes have been cast,
The dice have been thrown.
The calculus broken,
They’re starting to moan.
Incredulous, wakening,
They realize they’re slaves
Not to their own brilliance
But each other’s faves.
The rising and falling:
They share the same lot.
All in this together,
Declaring what’s hot.
That Heisenberg dude,
Man, he’s such a jerk
The more he looks closely
The less things just work.
It should be organic
Cream floats to the top
But so does Jan’s poo
When the toilet is stopped.
Encourage each other;
I don’t mind critique.
Thank God we’re all different,
Our perspectives unique.
I love to tell stories,
And talk about God,
Juxtapose, be ironic,
And be generally odd.
I find I’m quite dense
On the things that you write;
No worries, my C-PAP
Keeps me up at night.
But I’d best tie this off
As fast as I can
Or it’s tl;dr
From a cranky old man!
1) haiku* untitled:
october winds
of scattered maple leaves
~ handwritten poems
2) a three-line poem titled:
OF AUTUMN LEAVES AND ALL
a three-line poem is open to free verse, alliteration or rhyme
October winds wakening the muse within the silence of each mime
advice to all that if you can’t do the time don’t do the crime
3) a free verse poem titled:
SO LONG AGO
in the flurry of October winds
the dance of scarlet maple leaves
reminded me of how I loved you so
*HAIKU RULES
I joined a national Haiku club to discover they are sticklers for rules and there are MANY MANY haiku rules ~ HAIKU is exactly the opposite of free verse in every possible way ~
In a nutshell ~ haiku are supposed to be observations of a moment in nature without embellishments, no passing judgment, no use of fantasy or abstract concepts. It's basically two simple ideas with a ‘turn’ that is essential: it's almost like the punchline of a joke but haiku is not really meant to be funny per se.
Here is an informal list of HAIKU GUIDELINES:
1. 5-7-5 is the max syllable count – “haiku should be read in one breath” so there can be less syllables per line.
2. ALWAYS NATURE-related with usually reference to 1 of the 4 seasons: spring, summer, fall, winter.
3. OFTEN the ‘turn’ is on the second line (takes the reader in another direction).
4. NO unnecessary capitalization.
5. NO title (if you must, use first word(s) of haiku).
6. NO unnecessary punctuation at end of lines.
7. NO use of abstract concepts (must be concrete).
8. NO personification.
9. NO unnecessary adjectives or adverbs.
10. NO full sentences: it’s a poem of few words with much left unsaid.
11. NO use of fantasy.
12. NO similes allowed.
13. NO explanation of haiku in last line.
14. NO heavy emotional words (should be felt not read).
15. MUST have a feeling of the present moment (NO past or future).
16. MUST be more than a description.
17. MAX 2 ideas (scenery + thought).
18. Rare use of I, you or we.
Sometimes we love what we created and it goes against many of the haiku rules ~ there's nothing wrong with creating “haiku-like” poems, they can be quite effective… we just should not call them ‘haiku’.
AP: Honorable Mention 2021
Wakening, I sense it’s a day not ordinary.
To the large bay window in my front room I’m drawn.
Lovely flakes tumbling from the sky I see.
I crack the door and feel the chill and still of dawn,
and peace descends on me like the snow that blankets my lawn.
In that winter’s morning hush are beams of brilliant light.
They sparkle, dancing on tree boughs hanging low.
How beautiful are they, all feathered white!
Along the lane, before a strong wind starts to blow,
I’ll go and walk serenely on the newly fallen snow.
Written Dec. 2, 2011
For Francine Roberts' "English Quintain contest Poetry Contest"
For Brian Strand's ONE FROM YOUR LAST FIFTY POSTED ON PS
any form/theme max 14 lines Poetry Contest