Long White haired Poems
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She looked tame, and the entire breakfast area had men in it.
I sat on a high stool directly across from her; we are in a hotel lobby.
I did not expect her to speak, but she did. “Where are you from?”
I told her Kansas City. She asked why I was here.
My granddaughter’s graduation.
She said “Guess what I made, a pecan waffle."
She jumped down to show it to the table behind me.
There were three couples there – all white haired like her.
I am a burgundy hair; I dye my white out because it makes me look old.
I am old, but do not choose to look it.
She jumped back up across from me and we ate in silence for a bit.
Okay, she ate in silence. I was eating Cheerios, so I was crunching along.
“I am burying my husband today,” she told me.
It was unexpected and startling. “I am sorry,” I told her.
“It’s okay,” she said. “You didn’t kill him or anything.”
I did not know what to say to this.
“Are you from here?” I asked her.
“I am Sheila, from Tennessee,” she told me.
“I am Caren from Kansas City,” I told her.
“That’s my family behind you,” she told me.
“They are sitting under a vent. It is too cold over there for me.”
I felt cold myself, all of a sudden.
*recite to Night Before Christmas
Who was this white haired Claus
with buck-rabbit teeth?
Carrying a ton of peanuts
for everyone to eat.
Dragged in a sleigh
pulled by Agnew and Nixon,
who ran right beside
old Donnar and Blitzen?
He circled Camp David,
A fast fly by;
with lox and bagels
for Jewish guys.
A carpenters’ pencil
was poised by his ear,
and boxes of nails dangled,
from the gear in the rear.
Why! It's Jolly Ole Carter Claus
draped in menorahs.
Handing out home plans to
the Arab before us.
Visions of world peace
danced in his head;
as, he flew to Afghanistan
‘Fore noggin hit bed.
When down from the sky
in the form of deer dung,
fell fruit tree seeds
to be sown in the sun.
And, as Carter Claus’ whip
cracked O’er Nixon's ear,
as Agnew blanched,
his eyes filling with tears.
Droplets hit sand with
a plop and a splatter
’pon the fruit tree seeds with
nary a clatter.
The desert grew green.
Trees sprouted and grew.
Hearts filled with wonder
bellies with stew.
Homes were rebuilt,
as before the fall.
Cook fires were lit.
Children grew tall.
And Ole Carter Claus
flew home in a daze,
passing out sandwiches
that Roslyn had made.
Ama you are a father
Father my father
Whose basket of fishes
Sweetened my mother’s dishes
Whose naked feet danced
The jungle drum you drummed.
I remember
Father I still remember
Those joyous days
When like brooding hens
You employed your hands
To shield the offsprings
Those several bodies
O! the little bodies
That clung to your bare wide chest
Like the eaglets unto their nest!
I remember
The sun-burnt days of the hunted panther
When the full moon-light chimed
The rhythms of jungle drum drummed
Rhyming with the story told
By the white-haired.
Then your roaring march
Along the prime paths of the forest
Then your rustic touch
Touching the weapon-hilt
Making carcasses of beasts
Making fresh clan feasts.
I still remember
The raw feasts of the drummer
Which strewed this universe
Like young Mbari warriors
Taking the spear from several clans
Turning their crowns into tributes!
Ama, you are the drummer
Whose communal tongue echoed
From the hidden chambers of the Niger
The drum of your conquests echoed
Everywhere in the universe
Like the gusto of the Sheik
Confiscating my land from the Sahara
In her eternal desiccation.
You are the royal father
Whose royal eyes woo the moon
Whose black hairs detain the sun
Like Joshua at Gibeon
Even in the deep valleys of Ajalon
Bringing the heavens to abrupt halts
When their course possesses progress.
O, Ama! you are a noble father
And like the gold-laying eagle my Africa
Your natural pocket flowers gold
Which fills the coffers of the household.
O Ama! you are our race
The clan greets her farmer
The tiller of my earth
The earth of the ancients
The ancients of my blood
The blood of my race.
The clan is still drumming
On the drum that now is a mere echo
Of the eternal rhythm of your drum
Ama, you are still our clan’s song;
O, you are my song
The song my jungle
The jungle of my blood
The blood of my race:
A race
Waiting
Now and ever
In a forlorn clan
Awaiting
A return of the drum?
Form:
Many people have seen him
But no one knows his name
That easy-walking white haired man
Whose made his claim to fame
One day in a casino
He wagered up a bet
And put a hundred dollar bill
On seven in roulette
He won on number seven
And he built himself a stack
Then he went to play some cards
And he won playing black-jack
A drunkard fool most his life
Now sober twenty years
He hasn't had a single drink
At least, that's what he swears
He's been from place to place
And he's made his claim to fame
He's a solitaire aficionado man
Still, no one knows his name
Bring A Character To Life Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Richard Lamoureux
9-4-2019
And therefore, whensoever death shall close my eyes,
I charge you thus to solemnize my doom:
let there be then no long ancestral parade of masks,
nor empty cry of trumpet for my end,
nor spread me a catafalque inlaid with ivory,
nor lay my corpse out on a cloth-of-gold;
no ranks of acolytes with incense heaped on trays:
the plain last rites of a common man be mine.
Grand enough my cortege, if it bears a few slim books,
my ultimate offering to Persephone.
But you, your naked breast all torn, shall follow after,
nor ever weary of calling out my name,
and press your final kisses upon my frigid lips,
while Syrian unguent pours from the onyx jar.
Then last, when the fire kindled beneath has burned me to ash,
consign my relics to a fragile urn,
and plant a laurel spreading over my simple tomb,
to shade the burnt-out cinders of my pyre,
and write: HERE LIES A MOUND OF COARSE, IGNOBLE DUST,
THAT ONCE WAS VASSAL TO A SINGLE LOVE.
My sepulcher shall then achieve no less renown
than has the Phthian hero’s bloodstained tomb.
You also, when your fate draws near, remember me,
and come white-haired to these memorial stones;
meanwhile, have care lest you be faithless to my grave:
this earth will not be wholly dead to truth.
If only in my cradle one of the Sisters Three
had ruled that then I should yield up my soul!
What use to cherish so life’s too precarious breath?
Seek Nestor, who lived three long ages: dust.
Yet if his doom of lingering age had been revoked
on Ilium’s rampart by some Carian’s spear,
he never would have seen Antilochus’s corpse entombed,
nor cried, “O death! Why come to me so late?”
Yet you sometimes shall mourn the lover you have lost:
love lasting is the meed of vanished men;
as, when the savage boar smote delicate Adonis
while hunting once, high on Idalium’s crown,
they say that in those marshes his beauty was laid low,
and that you, Venus, came with loosened hair;
but Cynthia, vainly you will summon back my ghost:
what answer could my crumbled bones return?
— translated from the Latin
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Old fellow, so mellow;
Heads spinning
Don’t remember
This September (what)
Got an appointment
His divorcement been approved
He’s an old white haired dude!!!
some say he’s from I- O-WAY
Just across Ne- Brass- Ka by OmaHA
Got a old Plymouth 1962 Valiant
License plated: I O wa State;
Dressin overalls his ID says Paul stalls
But the pictures don’t match
My Grandma says he’s quite a catch
Name on the driver’s license says Lenard Sparks
Will you look at that hat what a sight?
And them there overalls are too darn tight…
But he doesn’t remember his real name
At 84 he just meanders;
Dementia, what ya say
What cha takin bout hey
The white haired man
With the turnt up mouth
Never been a winner
Heart beat flutters in a tizzy
Folks on the block just calls him DIZZY
some say he’s from I- O-WAY
Just across Ne- Brass- Ka by OmaHA
Got a old Plymouth 1962 Valiant
License plated: I O wa State;
Dressin overalls his ID says Paul stalls
But the pictures don’t match
My Grandma says he’s quite a catch
Name on the driver’s license says Lenard Sparks
Will you look at that hat what a sight?
And them there overalls are too darn tight…
Never been a winner, since the beginnings beginner
Old fellow, so mellow heads spinning doesn’t remember
Heart beat flutters in a tizzy
Folks on the block just calls him DIZZY
8/21/19
Written words James Edward Lee Sr.2019©
This dusty rocking chair hidden for, at least, two decades
in a corner of the dark attic, where a white-haired man
used to sit in and rock himself to sleep, cuddled in a wool blanket:
can tell many how and when it was made
by that cigar-smoking grandfather of yours...
It just lay there picking up much space,
silently abandoned and not needed by anyone to lay back and gaze;
so ignored were the mastery and love that took in making it;
when I heard him stump on the long stairs,
sunshine filtered through, the unwashed window, to engage his wit....
Curious boy, staring at me with awe, you should know
that I originated from a timber forest too dense;
and the hard and thick wood was cut down by a sharp saw:
bought in the quite borough of Queens,
to be worked on by very rough hands:
with the intention of creating charm and elegance...
Take a soft rag and some furniture polish from the tiny closet,
and bring me back to the previous life of my self-importance:
my luster lasted only for fifty prosperous years,
then suddenly I was put away to face darkness;
and I longed for someone who could listen with interest,
and keep me company to forget my wretchedness...
Sympathetic boy, as I speak, write down this worth-telling story,
in your brand-new composition book with an interesting essay:
to let others know that I was a jewel that dazzled from all four corners;
when Americans fall again on hard and unacceptable times,
they can look it up to be comforted and be told how to cope with their woes,
or even how to see their hardship and deprivation a momentary demise...
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
There are bright twinkling stars obscured by a sprinkling of clouds.
Oh! Starry, starry night with a crescent moon to give light~
Then a hint of daybreak with some faint light, the light that reveals
more with each passing fantasy flight...
Explosion of red on horizon revealing silhouetted black clouds to the south.
The distant cock-a-doodle-do of the fighting red roosters echoes through the dark
outline of forest trees.
Sound that is floating upward and outward
greeting the sun inviting it to come on up to light and warm their world..
A Mockingbird chatters, an early riser, up and already singing his welcome to the
white-haired lady 'pon the porch..
There's a stillness and peace that saturates my being~peace, peace wonderful
peace.
A blazing sun now cast upon clouds a glow like a fire against chared blazing logs
crackling in the hearth warming the body through and through..
Nature greets the morn with open arms
instead of greeting it like one who greets the warmth of
hearth with hands rubbing and shivering waiting for the touch of heat.
Sponsor: Andrea Dietrich
Contest: Succinctly Free(SF)
Written: 11-11-13
Alone, Looking for Blossoms Along the River
The sorrow of riverside blossoms inexplicable,
And nowhere to complain -- I've gone half crazy.
I look up our southern neighbor. But my friend in wine
Gone ten days drinking. I find only an empty bed.
A thick frenzy of blossoms shrouding the riverside,
I stroll, listing dangerously, in full fear of spring.
Poems, wine -- even this profusely driven, I endure.
Arrangements for this old, white-haired man can wait.
A deep river, two or three houses in bamboo quiet,
And such goings on: red blossoms glaring with white!
Among spring's vociferous glories, I too have my place:
With a lovely wine, bidding life's affairs bon voyage.
Looking east to Shao, its smoke filled with blossoms,
I admire that stately Po-hua wineshop even more.
To empty golden wine cups, calling such beautiful
Dancing girls to embroidered mats -- who could bear it?
East of the river, before Abbot Huang's grave,
Spring is a frail splendor among gentle breezes.
In this crush of peach blossoms opening ownerless,
Shall I treasure light reds, or treasure them dark?
At Madame Huang's house, blossoms fill the paths:
Thousands, tens of thousands haul the branches down.
And butterflies linger playfully -- an unbroken
Dance floating to songs orioles sing at their ease.
I don't so love blossoms I want to die. I'm afraid,
Once they are gone, of old age still more impetuous.
And they scatter gladly, by the branchful. Let's talk
Things over, little buds ---open delicately, sparingly.
Author: Tu Fu, a Chinese poet (born 712 – died 770).
Form:
The golden leaves fall off
the cherry trees groping
on the steep cliff,
the tall marabous lament...diving
in dark, shallow waters
their racous cry announce
the arrival of winter on the reef...
while the poet dreams!
The lost kite has flown off
a kid's hand that waves to its friend,
shrikes wait on pines' brenches
for their prey to impal on thorns;
wagtails stand on rocks
being watchful and trustless of them,
living in danger is not staying alive...
while the poet dreams!
The jumping mouse scurrs
from scrub to scrub crushing their leaves,
as daylight haunts his footsteps;
food is scarce by the waterfront,
so he scampers back to the underground,
to return when everything turns dark
and finds no one endagering his search...
while the poets dreams!
The blind,white-haired man is led
by a retriever that's so attentive,
as he guides him to an empty bench;
he can't see or perceive a fall's sunset:
like other cheerful eyes bedazzled by light...
while the poet dreams!