Long Wherewithal Poems
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The gift of friendship
A most precious gift of all
True friends are always there for you
Come running when you call
Whatever the time
Be it day
Be it night
Whatever the wherewithal
You may not see them for a while
But when you talk upon the phone
It feels like only yesterday
As if no time has passed at all
A friend you trust with everything
They share your highs and lows
Such special souls sweet angels on earth
Priceless gems their friendship’s worth
In life we meet just one or two
They feel the same ‘bout me and you
Our love and care goes back and forth
Our hearts and souls a magic force
Friendship has no boundaries at all
They sense your pain before you call
Wrapping your soul with love and warmth
Like the softest luxurious cashmere shawl
Written 9th August 2020
Contest Strand Completely New (20)
Sponsor Brian Strand
FIRST PLACE
When it is that freedom is taken from our lives
And is replaced by tyranny that so totally deprives
Our rights to freely speak or be a dissident
Or question the authority from which it has been sent
‘Tis then we must come forward and take a righteous stand
To quell the tyrants’ dictates: Remove the things they’ve planned
Our country’s sinking rapidly, of that there is no doubt
We must work until we put the tyrants out!
Indictments here; indictments there, that’s how it’s all begun
But there must be many more, before our job is done
And when we have completed this necessary task
We’ll hold our heads on high, and then it is we ask:
“Were we the ones who took a stand to right the freedoms’ wronged?”
And are we in the company of those who have belonged
To America, our country, and still Founding Fathers bless
With wisdom and wherewithal to make the answer: YES.
So many sick rivers
Of pain, shock and shiver
Flow from longstanding wounds
Of soul-chopping depression that surround
Many islands next to you and me
As a consequence of the malady
Our development system is trapped in
Because of the flaws within
In Kolkata the other day
Collin in sheer dismay
Accepted the unacceptable truth
That his son cannot have the fruit
Of higher education in a star college
As he cannot afford the package
He could have been
Another Stephen Hawking
Phillip in Nairobi
Is forced to lobby
With corrupt controllers of the system
For his free cancer treatment
Nevertheless stays encumbered
His days are numbered
He has no wherewithal
To go to a better hospital
In Mexico
The blue sky of girls destitute
Get imprisoned in dark cells
No, actually sheer hell
Of flesh trade
A huge global population Is demented
The world is fragmented
Gravely disproportionately
Right from the ages of amoeba
Till today’s human ova
Trees are stripped of their bark
Stark naked a major part of the world
In frustration I sometimes do scream
Nevertheless dream too
For a perfect world
Enabling all to unfurl
Leaving none deprived
Of a health-packed miniscule yellow sun
On every breakfast dish
And no hashish
May be it will take
Many more centuries to make
An even ground
For Prometheus unbound
------------------------------------------
Morning Thoughts
Written: by Miracle Man
9-5-2019
3:00 AM
Thoughts this morning,
bear times fade.
By the Holy Spirit,
they were conveyed.
I’m reminded, as past clouds,
encompass me.
Only this instant Is mine,
by God’s decree.
Matthew 6:31 – 6:34
31 Therefore take no thought, saying, What shall we eat? or, What shall we drink? or, Wherewithal shall we be clothed?
32 (For after all these things do the Gentiles seek:) for your heavenly Father knoweth that ye have need of all these things.
33 But seek ye first the kingdom of God, and his righteousness; and all these things shall be added unto you.
34 Take therefore no thought for the morrow: for the morrow shall take thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day [is] the evil thereof.
What makes the hiking up mountains more striking?
What makes the driving more fun than arriving?
What makes the ocean-ing worth the sun lotioning?
Gear!
Gear makes the biking much more to my liking,
Gear makes the camping way less spirit-damping,
Gear makes the gardening less callous-hardening,
Let's hear it for Gear!
Now softball-leaguing is way more intriguing,
Now boogie boarding is much more rewarding,
Now even jogging feels less like a flogging,
3 cheers for the Gear!
Titanium! Spandex! Aluminum! Latex!
Hi-tech! All-weather! Light as a feather!
No wonder I struggled for many a year -
I had not the wherewithal to buy the gear!
If age is a constant then daydreams and nightmares
will cease to exist when the best of life is achieved
as maturity stabilizes at a level of immaturity favors
the innocence in confidence-mired ill-retrieved
those hopelessly enwrapped by rhetorical triggers
stemmed by the proposer amongst the ill-believed
'tis liken a heist at gunpoint to corner those regretters
to have brains (methinks) to cusps their mind deceived
and churned their souls to enter their relievers
and entertain the premature notion that they conceived
participants to ascertain the wherewithal of achievers
better or best consciously the line of inquiry perceived
to mull over and enter the zone as one of the leavers
to post with the best, to the winners be my best-wished.
Darkness
In a quiet room the darkness encircles all
The slightest of shadows seemly abounds
Your eyes grappling to focus wherewithal
You become attuned to all the subtle sounds
Within the shadows lurk your deepest fears
In childhood memories of forgotten tales
Once again fearsome efficiencies appears
In your imagination, within all gruesome details
Deep within the psyche of the blackest hearts
There is this darkness where hate controls
Somehow hurt turning into anger imparts
Buried deep within their tortured souls
Perhaps that they not know the harm that they do
When consumed by only hate in their tortured souls
Controlled by past events they have lived through
Deep seated anger and hate takes many tolls
Darkness takes on form in many strange ways
Be it the void of all light, in a black, lonely space
Or the blackest of souls, of all those that betrays
Darkness can change into light within a loving grace
Eldest daughter – I Praise
Twenty two years ago
December twenty second,
two thousand eighteen
"star student" born
this papa (and most
likely thee birth mother)
initially felt ecstatic,
dramatic (yes frenetic),
and careworn
as freshly minted parents,
but gifted with a daughter,
whose existence far
more precious
than any Earthborn
rare widgets, gewgaws,
gems, et cetera, despite
evoking unsolicited,
unpleasant, and
unmanageable forlorn
communication "dirt poor"
living (at least ten years
of wretchedness at 1148
Greentree Lane) unable
to toot your horn,
cuz unbearable, undesirable,
unforgettable, et cetera,
and manifold challenged ,
when beloved Shana
Punim evinced inborn
developmental delay,
(which severe electric
koolaid acid test
patience of this father),
much more difficult
than playing krummhorn,
now after tendering the trials
and tribulations, an
amalgamation of
poignant affects,
whereat your
permanent presence...
(must never NOT precede mine),
cuz..., I would definitely mourn,
your absence, thus felt the timely
opportunity to dash off
a birthday poem to you
in tandem with sharing,
(while comfortably numb
and figuratively licking war
torn psychological wombs) - torn
and ripped, queued,
peppered natty psyche
pockmarked with scorn
from self, (and those lives,
this dada immediately
impacted) particularly
your person roar'n
with cumulative anger toward
this insightful fellow,
(who claims to know
what thee feel toward me),
especially when ****
hours of valuable
time, now caught
(say, eh...approximately, fraught
upon the half life of rare Earth
element Eden), not
just strictly naught
heard thru the grapevine,
but forcing Math (hew)
analysis, via meditation, poetry
writing therapy, et cetera.
Hence...I apologize,
asper unasked for pain wrought
thee, sans being unemployed,
demeaning "mother Abby,"
bumbling, horrid house
keeper (Hagrid himself,
would turn down invitation),
plus Facebook fiasco,
imbroglio, and locomotive -
complicit in behavior
comparable to pedophile,
yet please let me conclude
by admitting total lack
of wherewithal.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAR DAUGHTER!
Our children
By Franklin Price
12/30/2015
Our children are our legacy
They are what we have raised
If they do well because of that
It is they who should be praised
We must give all we can to them
Not claim we did it all
For when they reach a certain point
It's for them to rise or fall
They either have the wherewithal
Or may fall a little short
It's theirs for them to do or not
The ball is in their court
Don't ruin being part of it
Trying to control just how they act
They're grown and they are on their own
With them you should make a pact
Support them every way you can
Not for any selfish need
Give because you love them
And help the tree grow from the seed
They'll always be your babies
But you have to let them go
Or you'll end up having nothing
From a child you don't even know
15 of them begin the emotional ritual attired in silk & sequens,
they maneuver miraculously one after another on burning coals glowing violet,
the dance steps are heartbeats, curved & compassionate, their majesty is inviolate,
their Art is to suffer for Hope wrought from the ribbon of Reality's casualties,
fifteen to infinity the ladies become shooting stars
lazered through a constellation collapsing into a single sphere of suspense,
the crowd claps, cymbals chyme and a sorcerer's symbols
rain in a fury of subconscious superstorm, confusing chaos
and charming candor as relics vouchsafed in this cosmic cavern,
the Eye of Providence appears annonymously, winking with Blessings
on the forehead of a girl crooning for Roman gifts of iron roses & opium doses
as she poses prettily on top of the Arch of the Covenant
where angels scorch alms and demons dine on delirium,
a flame spitter and sword swallower run to the forefront
as the music deepens within the skulls of saints,
they confront each other with pride, mortal misgivings alight in their eyes,
a contest between Altruism & Misanthropy,
which will prevail, fire or steel, which to survive, love or hate,
one gets stabbed, the other burned, wagers wave through the theater,
lots of chatter, banter & bravado, the wounded continue with character,
Innocence tries to exit but is not allowed by Wherewithal
as the two forces seem to be fatally struck
a curtain closes ceremoniously and all that remains,
endangered enlightenment echoes, and echoes like thunder
while a beautiful candle glows, not yet bent or spent
and everyone in attendance calms and knows,
in absence of love, nothing but misery can be achieved -
J.A.B.