Long Wearers Poems
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Creeping creepy creepers, the crawling trellis
jutting out of everywhere
snaking through country and metropolis
twisting turning in floral bliss
but more like snakes that hiss
But in quietude feign death for self-defense!
Weeping willows with an unreal surreal sorrow
weeping tears of dew onto the silted furrow.
Perhaps weeping for bretheren felled
in deforestations and land clearings in
my imaginations of the call to preservation.
Against ethnic cleansing of greenery for selfish building
As per man's construction for mere recreation
Velvety-green tear- stained faces or rather foliage
When dew is stuck on them as nature's trinkets of pearls.
And over there touch-me-nots swaying coyly
like prim and proper maidens
in the fantastic floral gardens.
And what in the world is this case?
Imitation flowery in place of imitation jewellery?
Yeah, thats poinsettia in a vase
Leaves in the disguise of flowers
Its actual flowers relegated to backstage.
And ethereal fairy-slippers await their never coming wearers
and Indian pipes to be admired by Red Indian sightseers.
Oh and here's another spectacle- but sniper tactics this time
Yikes! Let the naive insect world beware!
Whilst the bloodthirsty killers lie in ambush
Those camouflaged jungle guerrillas
or should we say the venus fly-traps!
Or a more harmless one yet mimicking the scary
A snap-dragon flora, its mouth opening and snapping shut.
Then watch that mega-sized jumbo giant flora
The world's largest flower
No stems, no leaves, plant-eater plant, rafflesia.
Is it too much for the faint-hearted ha ha.
And wow now watch that incredible costume, oh my!
A flower masked as some pesky fly!
None other than the remarkable fly orchid.
And yet another, the silent music of the fiddlenecks
Fiddles as if for the light-weight fairies.
And lastly not forgetting ofcourse
the sky-blue unforgettable forget-me-nots
A memorable bouquet but themselves devoid of memory.
Ah nature lover poets if you wish to view
more of flora in a fancy dress masquerade
Go ahead and flip through the pages of
a botanical, floral
horticultural
pictorial journal.
And see for yourself the fantastic flora's charade
or else imagine them dressed as a floral renegade!
Incertitude
Who am I...?
Am I the first born son, emanating from a fire of passion?
Am I the long lost hope, rekindled, ravenous in the eyes of my forebears?
Am I the caressed cocoon, spun out of love and compassion?
Whose silken threads, entice and embellish the vain vanity of its wanton wearers?
Am I a prodding prodigy,
Aimed at excelling in every sphere ?
Am I, a porous sponge, meant to absorb every single human emotion, a mortal can bear?
Am I a doted upon enduring exemplar or a doomed ephemeral effigy?
Am I the mellow and musky mist, exuding from a bare bosom?
Am I the naive, reticent lover, imperfect, yet dearest to my beloved?
Am I the longing in her eyes, a hypnotic hum?
Am I mere an object of desire- usurped, used, seduced, shoved?
Would I be another mere mortal among the countless thriving throng?
Lashed by grief, aged by time, thwarted by fear and smitten by love?
Would I be a forgotten fable or a perennial song?
Would I be remembered as -
A peacock- proud of its plumage,
An Owl- sombre yet subtle , of a lettered lineage,
A nightingale-serenading a song touching the core ,
A mystic bird from an ancient lore,
or , a dove – cygnet soft , gentle sitting on an alcove?
Oh Time! Tarry! A little,
Before I transcend from this world to the other,
Hark ! I plead, solve this riddle.
Oh Wind! Carry away my doubts to the omniscient;
Rush against all odds, be it a mighty mountain or a rampant ridge.
Time is running, I dread to lose myself in this mystic maze,
Oh Almighty! Accept my venerations to you my liege,
Enlighten me , before my mortal remains is set ablaze.
-Saptarshi Mukherjee
In times of trouble it outshines its glow
The supposed intrinsic value of its allure
Is a safe house in times of economic un-certainty
When money is being made but not through
Traditional means
The historian would if consulted dismiss
The hype surrounding this shiny metal
As nought but a greed reflex based on
Short-sighted ignorant mania
Its value is akin to a smoke screen
Of dazzling lights
And a house of cards
That will disintegrate when the fickle mob
Move to a safer bet
Speculation and speculators
With their shark instincts
Miss the point
Gold is shiny and there lies its allure
Our supposed sophistication
And technologically advanced state
Still makes us kids drawn to the light gold emits
To flash it and bling it
Is its purpose
Not a store of wealth to be kept in a vault
The man who buys a band to
Prove his love
The gangster who shows his wealth on his person
Are the true connoisseurs of gold
It has no inner magic
Its surface does the job
It was bought to do
A status symbol of wealth and prosperity
That was meant for show
Is gold at its best
And most appealing
`
When the wearers are outspent by an investor
Then gold has rusted
And speculators lose
It's true intrinsic value laid bare
That of hype caused by uncertainty in the money market
It is to the economic historian no power-house of value
The more coveted it is for gawping appeal
The more valuable it is
Speculative mania will only
Tarnish its dazzling glow
Wear it
Bling it
Don’t invest in it
My soul filled with pride and my eyes misted as the parade passed in review.
'Twas the annual hometown Veterans Day Parade that I was privileged to view.
Veterans, young and old marched behind the flag that they vowed to defend.
They sacrificed so much to uphold the liberties we enjoy in this land!
A Medal of Honor recipient served as Marshal for the parade.
Lively music provided by the local high school band was played.
An honor guard led the procession with Old Glory held high.
Old veterans along the street saluted with a proud tear in their eye!
There were survivors from the December 1941 Pearl Harbor Affair.
No doubt this day recalled memories of comrades who yet lie sleeping there.
Grizzled heroes of The Battle of the Bulge marched proudly with resolute stride.
Wearers of the Purple Heart rode aboard a float with heads held high with pride!
A company of Korean War vets marched representing the war in which they served.
Viet Nam vets received long overdue plaudits from the crowd they so well deserved.
Young men and women still on active duty, some barely out of their teens,
Represented the Army, Navy, Coast Guard, Air Force and United States Marines!
Those gnarled hands that once held the terrible weapons of war,
Now beckoned for peace that we shall know war no more.
The hardships they suffered for liberty's sake we shall never know.
So much, so very much to each of these brave men and women we owe!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
© All Rights Reserved
Watching the small crowds of people declaring their rights
Guns on their belts in their hands yelling at Governors and pressing at policemen
Spitting at mask wearers, licking boxes and pointless fights
Indifferent to the sufferings of neighbors, family and friends
Unmoved by the tears and fatigue of nurses and medical teams
Please remember in years gone by the names who have lived and died
Suffering times, cruelty and fears— remember humanity’s most atrocious years
The Holocaust, Ann Frank, attacks on the disabled, the old
Hiding under wallboards and floorboards, in attics, in the woods,
Sent to Concentration camps, Russian work camps, to death in Siberian Ice
Mandela in Pollsmorr Prison, smallpox, the Indian’s Trail of Tears,
Refugee children now during our times from fear of the others its over 3 years
In contagious prisons torn from their families—hardship misery and pain
Yelling for our rights over the attempts to keep us well to help our neighbors and friends
As people drink beer and watch videos and complain and complain
How dare we protect our grandparents from this illness from death
Listening to the anger and threats — its fear I know its money, greed and attempt to blame
Presidential desire for power and pathological indifference to others all back again
But we must remember, we must, the horror on earth when mankind goes insane
Serving my father's land is a badge of honour
—this I wear with pride,
Like a radiant star shining bright in the darkness.
The call to duty was music to my ears,
A melody of purpose,
—this echoed the sacrifices my mother made;
Now resonating with the pride my father would have felt
if he were still with us.
But, like a fleeting dream;
the thought of life after the one-year call haunts me.
I envision many of my comrades,
Who were once zealous and full of hope,
Now relegated to the fringes
—their degrees gathering dust like autumn leaves.
Some have become mere shadows of their former selves—
Ferrying market women and farmers,
like rowboats adrift in a stormy sea.
Others, once proud wearers of 'Kakis and Singlets,'
now don the cloak of despair—
Their skills reduced to chasing rodents in the farm,
like a farmer's dog.
The irony is palpable – education,
Which was once the golden key to unlocking their dreams,
Now taunts them like a mirage on a desert highway.
Oh! God!
If you could grant me one wish,
Let the smiles of those who answered the clarion call
remain carved on their faces forever,
A testament to the power of purpose,
even when the winds of uncertainty howl
like a chorus of restless spirits.
SheDanger of the North Sea and Klinedyke will cut your heart out
Feed it to the body wearers, and give you a blood curling shout.
She was raised by the most fierce king who ever existed on the earth.
She does not take prisoners, she kills and I mean with mirth.
Her mother died when she was two or three, leaving an empty throne.
She was raised by King Glockenschimidt, one whose temper is well known.
He taught her to hate her enemies, and cut out hearts without feeling bad.
She apparently has used battles and war to hide feelings she ever had.
The North Sea and Klinedyke have obtained lands and horses in a daily way.
Because SheDanger likes to battle. Her lust for blood is satisfied every day.
The troops stay behind this fierce warrior, for she always takes the lead.
She wears a skull and a scalp. A dead raven decorates her mighty steed.
SheDanger is coming, the winds blow into a town a day or two ahead.
Villagers attempt to run for the hills, for she will leave every one of them dead.
As ferocious as a body wearer, but a lass well-known for her beauty.
I run to warn my unsuspecting clan, for it is my sacred calling and duty.
She whispered to me, "I hope you suffer well."
God heard her words, and he smiled,
for if suffering is what she wanted for me,
her hopes would soon be smothered in hell.
To give my best to those I loved,
It meant walking away to save a life,
when an evil person who wore a mask,
threatened to me to take their lives.
This very thing it happened to me,
no one knew or could they see,
their lives would be threatened If I told,
about the evil things that I saw unfold.
I made a choice and told it all,
a mask wearer amongst them still walks,
I'm happy to say I will never regret,
In an eight by ten room is where it rots.
The day will soon come when I've gone,
the mask wearers mask will slip with smiles,
but it'll be too late for I will tell,
though I'll never hope for all to "suffer well."
Evilness can hide inside those we know,
they hide it well with lies they tell,
they claim their the victim by tears they show,
whilst scheming with a devil who sleeps in a cell.
The necktie wearers, and flag pin bearers
Combing arcane smiles
With not one word out of place
Colluded to recreate
Pearl harbor's reincarnate
History's wounds slashed by new swords
A mirror of quondam contempt
Semblance of peace sat behind a podium
Truths interstice fogged
Aridity of public sentiment
Proved a deserted nature of love
Thirsty for blood of whom we know not
Patriotism painted from a teleprompter
As cobblers cleaned and mended
The boots which young feet filled
Whilst scoundrels signed a death waiver
For workers to pluck cold limbs
And prepare the fields
Where black gold geysers
Diluted the red stained, hallowed ground
Commissioned were penny whistles
And morts moaning on cue
For quarry men slouched
In the dirt, for eternal rest
Before rhetoric trumped up heroism
The azure above was clear and crisp
Til mercurial darkness was summoned
On desolations blooming row
As pinwheels kept on spinning
At the home of those who plot
Another stratagem, another canvas
To splatter blood upon
What is mist in my demeanour,
makes me fray when I am touched,
the thread is just a little leaner,
when the rug is pulled too much.
Adjust the light,
reduce the glare,
the eyes will compensate the glow
with just the right influx of air,
the breath will gently ease its flow.
Call from the candle,
the patterned handle,
generates the heat of light,
and when it’s bare without a sandal
the iron brands you in the night.
Aware of the feast,
release the craving,
the best will save it in a jar,
wearers might warn us by waving,
when our engraving made its mark.
A stark reality to territory,
we covert the dark to rest,
the part that sparks our own clarity,
and every fight is but a test.
Caressed the stretched out wing and body,
the rack and ruin of a maiden flight,
the pressed at best now torn and shoddy,
unless the pest drifts to new heights.
Despite the knit of what was woven,
the proven cloth still dares to shred,
the holes return to join the stolen,
fitting to nourish on what was said.