Long Waterloo Poems
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Partir c'est mourir un peu..
Att skiljas är att dö en smula.
Av barn, fyllon och dårar får man höra sanningen.
Det är bäst att bita i det sura äpplet.
Den dagen, den sorgen.
The Story Begins
I remember long ago of night time kisses
Full of desire and apprehension, that you would disperse
You proclaimed your love, into my ear
I slept alone, the brisk cold hiding my fear
I would talk of dreams and foreign places
You begged me to go on and fulfill your dreams
Grand Manier nights , sad morning rays
Long gone was my love with golden hair
Daniel was not her lover
Under starry nights she held him close
I was nothing more than a friendly stranger
That he adored, and the son I never had
St Adolph would be my tormentor
On horses we rode in blankets of snow
Towards our destinies apart
Our fireplace of passion, we soon would depart
Like the brothers of Seville
I too was caught between two worlds
She would leave my heart in the cold of the rivers edge
From this day I became one of the walking dead
was once a dance hall girl named big Lu
she made men feel happy too
had an ache? she knew what to do
she worked in a saloon called little blue
most wives were jealous of Big Lu
she gave no lessons of what to do
and they did not have a clue
they shunned her on the street, our Lu
niece of old Teddy V. Waterloo
She retained her confidence, our hero, Lu
married up with a rich guy named Tiny Stew
could now be respectable in town of Slew
stuck-ups wanted to be her friends now too
but now they were shunned by our hero, Big Lu
who remembered how snotty they would do
they were just too damned mean to Big Lu
If you take a flight at night,
Don’t expect much sleeping,
Though exhaustion in your bones
Will sneakily start seeping.
First of all, you’re sitting,
Which to sleep is not conducive.
Next are all the noises,
Making slumber quite elusive.
Even if the lights are dimmed,
Some screens are lit up brightly.
Putting on a sleeping mask
Will help, but only slightly.
Flight attendants on the march
Bring snacks or drinks or smiles,
Rattling their carts as they
Parade on down the aisles.
If you catch your forty winks,
You wake up in a stupor.
Next to younger passengers,
You seem a party pooper.
Then you land and you de-plane,
So wiped out you could cry.
Since you booked these tickets,
Now it’s time to wonder why.
You’re so wiped out the day is shot;
The red-eye part is true.
Some love these flights, but as for me,
I’ve met my Waterloo.
Never Too Late To Say "I Love You" Until...
Futile lamentations reverberate along
corridors of times long gone, this papa
tearfully apologetic revisiting his base,
fitfully lachrymose torturing unrelenting
voluminous wrongs against thee dearest
precious daughter aware poetic/ prosaic
ministrations cannot substitute bonafide
nor ameliorate cumulative forsaken joys
requisite to bolster compromised delicate
innocence exhibited upon begetting deux
darling (wool worth more than fine spun
gold) healthily nurturing priceless progeny
two quickly grown to young womanhood
priceless offspring, whose treasured quasi
nubile kindled joie de vivre far surpassed
petrified plaguing yours truly (particularly
during pre/ post pubescent phase), outlook
grim to take life by the horns, nee apathetic
pestiferous psychological, frankly zapped
wracked, plagued aversion to live steering
any natural borne autonomy, (within meek
minecrafted muffled mortgaged self) bereft
existence, (albeit manifesting during latter
sainted days of boyhood), a death grip vis a
vis anorexia nervosa (robbing, stunting, and
halting critical puberty) against attaining my
maximum potential, nee then and every sub
seek went till present day truncating, stifling
raining aftermath of torturous, noxious, jinxed
insufferably hellacious, (hence reiteration to
cease livingsocial, rather antisocial) under_
scored, ordained, narrated by whirled series
of unfortunate events, (without courtesy of
Lemony Snicket), which passivity degraded,
exacerbated, fouled... gradual punctuation to
adulthood overridden when me as man-child
never tested survival, but found this scrivener
beating hasty retreat defeated by emotional
illness demarcating the Waterloo which I
fitfully fought when mandatory ultimatums,
measures, dictates...forced eviction within
cocooned hideaway (such as bedroom at 324
Level Road), which parallel repeated when
decamped at 1148 Greentree Lane, the latter
poisoned your welfare, with dire declaration
of toxic dependence (Zison's harshness) fed
deprivation, and desperation, while ye bore
brunt of emotional, financial, mental...fallout
indelibly etched within impressionable
Tabula Rasa, now the anguished suffering
ye unfairly experienced.
AU REVOIR!
We never could get on. This was the last
of our attempts to find the golden mean.
We'd come here to the South of France, with wives,
a summer holiday of mending fences,
two colleagues seeking ways to rub along.
In Antibes (or in Aix - I don't recall),
as we were strolling down some tree-lined street,
I noticed an hotel. So very French.
Neat wooden shutters, graceful balcony.
The plaque above the threshold caught my eye:
"Here, on this very balcony, the great
Napoleon, escaped from Elba, made
an inspired speech. His fortunes at low ebb,
and hunted by his foreign enemies,
he spoke to France, and France took up his call.
His former soldiers, sent to capture him,
threw down their arms and wept. So Bonaparte,
here on this spot, resolved to fight again,
and see what kind of mistress Fate might prove."
Here. On this spot. A bankrupt, beaten man,
that Spring of eighteen fifteen, chose to roll
the dice again, to shape Earth's destiny.
I heard "Vive l'Empereur!" I felt the drums!
"You're so insensitive!" an English cry
thrust through my daydream like a metal spike.
McGill was pointing to a motor-bike.
"You walked right past this awesome piece of kit,
And didn't even notice!" That was it.
The die was cast. For good or ill, I knew
my fate lay elsewhere. This was Waterloo.
All hope of reconciliation gone,
McGill and I had crossed our Rubicon.
No flower
Nor wreath
Shall those deceased
Call to arms
On unknown gravus
That cross the bows of scuttled ships
That sank before the powder mist
Kisses follies chance encountered
Praying for an end to war
Could not save
Nor pebbles pave
The wanted loss
Etching towards the strike of bell's
Spying on the conversation
The felling leaves
Whisper when all is still
Underneath the Ravens bill
Where angels fear to shrill
The hour's have been at hand
And there are no more conductors left
To lead the band
In the devil's symphony
Art has met it's Waterloo
And there are no bends
Along these trampled streets of woe
For fiend and foe to seek
No more tear's to leak
This is where humanity ends
Not in victory
Forged in pity
The cost the living live to tell
But what is hell
And that remain
Shame shall place upon the face
And behind the eyes
The soul's of buried fallen dead
Whose family members lie in state
Resonate with diunified elegant poise
Though the noise on deaf ears fell
The hollow broken shell
Cried mother I will never see you again
And I never got to tell or show you how much I loved the
And I never will
Take my hand placed in yours
And keep me safe in mother's womb
This is where I choose to place
My love upon your resting grace
So I never forget your face
Memorial Day – 2023... origin of holiday
Strong and brave men and women
gave their level best
crème de la crème strongest and bravest
leaving grieving significant others
with emotional agony within treasured chest
o'er the redoubt the the enemy did crest
where lovely bones of forebears for everest
dead bodies strewn across killing fields
hostility among warring factions finessed
forsook their lives eternal peace they rest
honored and revered succumbed mortal
electric kool-aid acid test
though I question if sacrificed life
worth a spit of land to wrest.
Now pardon ma faux pas
from dis po' pa try'n 2b sleek
line six starting here necessitated minor tweak
a reasonable rhyme rhyme,
where sense and sensibility weak
Officially called Decoration Day
proclaimed on 5 May 1868 by General John Logan
first observed on 30 May 1868
Waterloo N.Y. officially declared the birthplace
by President Lyndon Johnson in May 1966.
though seven and nine tenths score years
since (minor emendation regarding time frame
since original date I crafted poem)
Appomattox, a psychological balm
helped stitch frayed nation to calm
served as silent psalm
since bombardment at Fort Sumter qualm.
National holiday most adept
at uniting Civil War fallen soldiers
when fiercely armed as brother in arms crept
against opposing forces, which took
by surprise “enemies” or found inept
ill prepared troops with surprise mortal
blow which ambushed attackers leapt
mowing down valiant soldiers, thus
becoming slain grooms who eternally slept
sorrowful lamentable hymns from
widowed brides tears wept.
Cease fire that day
terminating internecine flay
o’er mounds of earth whence
bones o boys donned blue or gray
a day of remembrance for those
who died in our nation's service lay
celebrated this last Monday every May
one must know tis not about division
boot about reconciliation
and sacrifice brave heroes did pay,
the price of their lives for granted
freedoms enjoyed as american lee-way.
Forsooth, now we cherish too, the Poppy red
That grows on fields where valor led,
It seems to signal to the skies
That blood of heroes never dies.
Ladies and gentlemen, laddies, lassies one and all
Water, water everywhere, be careful lest you fall.
Please take into account, we've found wet boards do shrink
and remind your children, this water's not to drink.
WHY, ye visitors to Snow Cave lake,
WHY for my job, you, your wat’ry fears forsake?
Tell me, fellow-creatures of geologic science
WHY in my presence, WHY try my patience?
Let's imagine we travel the shores of Gumee Gitchie
and pretend we're Wiahatha and Minnehehe
But alas! upon our banks, there is no naked maid.
Stay on the path, light-footed, if our lights should fade
Mine's to be the master spirit, your's to be the slave, don't sleep
Mine's to shape yourself obedient to the fuzzy words I speak
Flame and flood and stars and mountains from these primal waters seep.
Walking this path day in, day out, makes this young man weak.
All day I hear the noise of waters - above, below.
All day, all night, I hear them flowing to and fro.
Are there any otter questions, are there any?
My hearing's shot, but answers I have plenty.
How old is Snow Storm Cave you may be wondering?
As old, I would guess, as lightning, thundering.
Where are the Snow Storms? If you see one let us know,
after guiding for two summers now, I think it's melted snow.
And now we cross the Jordan or is it the Red Sea?
On into Snow Storm Gift Shop where your money can flow free.
Please come back to visit us, whenever you've less to do
Watch your step, guard your purse, remember Waterloo.
A Guide's Speech, easily adaptable to larger groups, longer tours by adding more poetry selections on the subject of water in general although other subjects would likely work as well for the essentially deaf.
born with hair slightly wavy as
summer sea's crest, Mom would
treat it as her morning decor ritual---
ponytailed, pinned at the crown with
zigzag of ribbons, braided two-ways,
and god knows what arrangements
followed--oh yes, the old maid bun!
jet black , it flowed down past shoulders;
the envy of high school.girls as we
started to soiree and party...like so,
by 2000, my lattice of curled tresses
met its waterloo: silky, straight locks
invaded mod media, downgrading
my status as a hometown freak...
my Nicole Kidman jive looking passe!
I remember fanatically calendaring
regular visits to a stylist-- a rite abhored
in young adolescence...
yes, magic of fad can be done;
from brazilian rebond, collagen tweaks,
highlights in tints of raspberry or maze
and more top shot brouhahas just
to be part of the scene!
yet, few seasons back, i began missing
myself... though shoulder length
locks inhabited me; i grew forlon, empty.
Imagining how Mom ran her fingers
down my young hair, I chose to let
my tresses flow without restraint---
jet black even through bright hues
of moonlit passages and
dawn's sequined, golden rise.
now. air- tossed, wind blown,
hand- caressed, aloe- rinsed
with few organic whips,
I sweep my hair
in its free flow movement --
allowing the me to be the natural
woman I am.
At Austerlitz I two nations vanquished;
making me historically distinguished.
At Marengo I had Austria subdued;
then I was to honour undoubtedly glued.
At the Pyramids, Mamluks kissed the sands;
then like a French Pharaoh I annexed their lands.
At Jena-Auerstadt, Prussia to her knees fell,
to avoid carnage, and possibly hell.
At Borodino, Kutuzov my boots licked,
as his Russian forces had their arses kicked.
At Ligny, Blucher like a coward fled,
as his smitten forces profusely bled.
At Toulon I first distinguished myself
for a career that would exalt oneself.
Rolica, Leipzig, Waterloo like curses came,
but history will forever my triumphs reclaim.