Long Windfall Poems
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Twixt life and hereafter
Break out in laughter
The better side of sixty
Louder, if you're thrifty
Ponder the tired frame
On inflammation, blame
Cells and tissues run amok
Immune cells, called, flock
Surgeons beckon
A windfall they reckon
Invading, nipping. gently
They probe, intelligently
Negative biopsy report!
You can still hold court
The end's hardly nigh
In consolation, sigh
Sudden rain
Wetness blankets;
Soaking clothes
People scurry
Scarce shelter;
Drenching everything
Rainy day chimes
Taxis taken;
Cold draught shivers
Misty roads
Water puddles surge;
Shoes soaking stains
Winding path
In the murky park;
Muddy waters
Bad weather
Traffic congestion;
Wet road accident
Durians harvest
Hot humid season;
Abrupt downpour
Cold and wet
Drenched skin;
Frozen shivers
Lightning surge
Shocking thunder;
Wet windfall
By this old tree
Shivering cold;
Awaiting salvation
Pregnant rain
Redecorates;
Watery stockpile
On my way home
Heavy downpour
Washes my attire
If only
I expected
Bad weather
Words on paper
Washed away;
By persistent rain
Leon Enriquez
18 Apr 2014
Singapore
It seems like I fell off the map on my life journey,
my path has been twisted and quite ferny;
and beauty is concealed . . .
I have learned to dip and dive in life's battlefield,
but this warrior of fate could use a shield;
and perhaps an attorney !
Fate just keeps throwing me off mountains I climb,
I end up in dangerous places most of the time;
I could use a fate guide . . .
So that over oceans and quicksand I could glide,
and face- fate's devious footballs with pride;
life is often lemons and lime !
Wonder, would I find contentment on easy street,
no, I like this journey, music and beat;
I like catching the football . . .
Standing strong and tall when I hit a stonewall,
so, I will play the game and there is a windfall;
I could be an athlete !
_________________________
March 9, 2018
Poetry/Rhyme/Simple Mutterings/Fate
Copyright Protected, ID 18-1002-488-01
All Rights Reserved. Written Under Pseudonym.
The greatest windfall payday of my life,
bar none, was when I won the lottery.
My l00 grand would help me reach my dreams
for years to come. I moved from Rocky Road
to grand Fifth Avenue. I vowed, “I’ll live,
both now and later, like a king. I’m owed
paid leave from work. My bosses, all those nerds,
will envy me. I’ll take 5 trips this year
with two close friends; three musketeers we’ll be!”
***********************
The third trip ended my wild spending spree.
I’m back at work. I’ve mounds of past-due bills
and zero balance from my last year’s win,
but while it lasted—I HAD SUCH A BLAST!
Date: September 25, 2018
Contest Title: How Sweet It Is
Sponsor: Carol Connell
I.
Trapper Dan Slocumb sat on down
in the small Whitehorse café.
The gold rush gone, ten years now,
he’d turned to furs to make his pay.
That day he spotted Red Billings,
carving away at a large tusk,
Much too big to ever be ivory
from even the greatest walrus.
He also wore what looked to be
a brand new buffalo coat,
but the hair on it was reddish-brown,
and so damn long that it flowed!
“Wherever did you get that?”
the trapper went on to ask.
Red said,”Took it from a frozen Indian,
six days west, by a small pass.
“I was trapping nearby looking for
an untouched source of hides,
When I found a man lying dead,
fallen motionless, on his side.
“I figured he wouldn’t need them,
so I helped myself, you see.
I made this coat, sold the rest,
but held on to the ivory.”
Dan he sat, lost deep in thought,
contemplating Red’s crazy tale.
That hide look like a big windfall,
better than trapping to no avail.
Six days west was manageable,
and his sled and dogs could zoom,
that’s when the half-breed Kloatsultshik
spoke up from across the room.
“Slocumb, don’t go being foolish,
for my mother’s people tell,
of a place one week west of here,
filled with great beasts from hell.
“Billings is lucky to be breathing,
if he traveled near that pass,
for in the language of my mother
it’s named ‘The Valley That Trumpets Death.’”
Red laughed and dismissed him,
“That’s all superstitious nonsense.”
And the thoughts of Dan only say
visions of dollars and of cents...
CONTINUES IN PART II.
What is love? Love is a portrait of art and love is precious.
Love is amazing poetry, simple imagery of alluring beauty,
Love is wonderful presentation filled with nice surprises,
Love is the first duel in the field to conquer honour and duty.
Love comes at dawn with welcome arms full of charm.
Love lives in the land of glory, by bristly heroic sacrifices,
Love is a language the conscious noun use of genres from,
Love is a life light until our soul eclipses the eternal skies.
Before pall bears, shadows fall smouldering ashes in a fire,
Love is the vows we make and the vows that we will shun,
Requiem powers of the dead lend strength to the survivor,
Love is in colours of the rainbow that glows for every nation,
Love is the scroll on which romantics wrote symphony of notes,
Love is the road on which they walk towards elusive goal,
Love is the boat on which they serenade carnival floats,
Love is in the air on streets of gold catching snow and windfall.
Love is many laughs and as many cries, we treasured most,
Love is risk and adventures floundering in the sleepless night,
In a chasm of abyss leap the soul above incarceration mist,
Clasped the fantasy that yearns for passion in secret delight.
Love is a cloud on which birth surprisingly thrives on earth,
In time, our emotions tear down the walls on which it stood,
Until we go back in reincarnation blur along the same path.
And consume the hearts splitting off into tiny pieces of good.
Love is a mixture hidden deep in faith, of belief small or great,
Unhinged the carriage driven by mortals in athleticism flame,
The contagious nectar of taste refined more palatable than hate,
In rhapsody of human glory, the acumen brings no shame.
If you had love? Would you give it away or keep it as a gift?
Finding ways through prison bars up the stairs and into the stars,
Love is too costly to waste scratching your head tearing at yourself,
From the almighty plan, it is our needful breath of joy and tears.
Good news came my way today February 21, 2021 courtesy late father
Papa - purportedly named
after paternal grandmother
Sadie, her mom's Yiddish name
Basia Brana (or Brandla),
she took two B letters and
found American boys' names
that kind of echoed
her mother's names in letters
and sounds too: Boyce Brandon).
Conversation with eldest sibling
apprised me of entitlement
heading this endeavor with poetic ring,
plus she (same sister) emailed
specifics, a financial life raft
I will devotedly and blessedly cling.
Gratuity his (General Electric)
life insurance policy
totaling $37,063.00
divided three ways
bequeathed to yours truly
and my two non-twisted sisters.
Aforementioned dollar figure
divided three ways equals
12,354.3333333,
which tidy sum
could help me
alleviate outstanding
credit card debt.
Upon acquiring allotted dividend
tattered credit history I will mend
eldest daughter would commend
no rhyme nor reason accrual twist
of fate unfortunately happened
impossible mission to comprehend
how yours truly became deadened
abominable hand to mouth existence
turned scofflaw criminally hardened
not really but makes for good legend.
Figurative dark shadow ameliorate
I must, cuz unpaid charges create
unnecessary uneasiness and emasculate
like invisible fetters tellingly generate
principal abuzz with interest initiate
tingling goosebumps think back,
when Iraq invaded Kuwait.
Whatever portion remains after bank
receives their due, inherited windfall
(lemme please me earnest and frank)
metaphorically teetering on pull lank
lesson learned while marriage doth tank
hence joint account activated between
yours truly and wife crocheting machine
eventually a future blanket methinks green
backs could be pocketed, especially
since legal tender equals slim pickings,
which hoop fully Spartan existence lean
years can be supplanted with obscene
wealth (cryptic words) hinting
play philanthropist so the missus
and her consort can live splendid
like king and queen,
else we may consider enlisting
contraband to acquire
laundered moolah crisp and clean.
The primate, loves to show himself off very much,
brags about his accomplishments as to being the most intelligent living being
on the earth; he is overly proud about himself for his achieved material abundance through inventing Money and development of convenient and comfortable living habitats with it. In so doing, man has become Money’s slave.
Although Money does all kinds of indecent things; mounts high
on this most intelligent but cowardly creature’s back fluttering
a banner of arrogance, Money even lashes the creature;
the creature swallows an insult adding zeroes to the note
each time Money lashes him.
I wonder why the creature submitted to Money, abandoning his pride and dignity. His ancestor hundreds of thousands of ages ago who crossed the water in very remote antiquity, rowing a boat in the heavy mist to arrive here has carried more zeros then the note he held. He keeps adding more to his note accepting lash after lash of humiliation.
Although it’s about time to stop adding zeroes to the note
the creature overly attracted to Money begins to recite a spell
no one would understand, offering a bribe and bowing to an idol
made of gold.
Bribery is an added function of Money and is invisible; no one sees who offers
or who receives it. The certified check: with many more zeros printed on it
than the notes offered to the idol; will be awarded to the spell-chanter’s hand
as a reward for the number of incantations he uttered and bowed to the idol.
The idol: that is able to conceive the meaning of the spell is smiling
because the bribe is a windfall; income to one who sits in the chair
comes with power, and is like a never-drying well in the wilderness.
Above all, it’s sweeter then honey. That’s why the idol eats gluttonously.
A swarm of flies comes and lick the undigested food, mixed with Money and
the many zeroes he vomits.
Impossible mission, nonetheless
eschatological, diabolical, critical...
dire straits betokens armageddon.
Come Tuesday, November 3, 2020
mandatory voting obligation to oust
horrible malevolent commander in chief.
Spanish and English writing on border wall
bespeaks impending apocalyptic windfall
weapons of mass destruction concomitant ashfall
brinkmanship ticks doomsday clock, hence the call
muster civilians and military troops coup to marshall
tuckered bands overthrowing pathological
megalomaniac haint your
homegrown garden variety apprenticed screwball,
Née commandeer of human abuses free world oh God
this exclamation ejaculated yours truly house atheist
runs ruinously, reprehensibly, rampantly roughshod
scaring out bejesus within winkin blinkin and nod
land of powdermilk biscuits and raw bits promises
to become ground zero predicated boneheaded clod.
Atrocious, cantankerous, egregious,
grievous, ignominious... dispensing
most every venerated, ushered, touted,
sacred, revered, pronouncing
progressive amendments dead
on arrival blithely shredding to tatters
hard won reforms since Fred
Flintstone days of yore shelving
codied, ratified, sanctified... shed
jeweled important legislation,
plus Russian musk cows to wed
Putin on the ritz.
Blasphemous, cantankerous, deleterious...
execrable folly... doth seed
subsequently begetting and breed
anarchy, chaos, hell, plus helps
foment pernicious, ominous,
noxious, malodorous... misdeed
pitting one against another creed
internecine warfare, where liveried
troops don and trumpet
(auld) alternative energy
fighting gear powering, i.e. ac/dc freed
one or more dirty deed
done dirt cheap reducing at lightspeed,
the hard fought/won democratic
inalienable rights purportedly guaranteed
by United States constitution,
(though oft times bias, i.e. reed
anti semitism, charade, facade...) heed
trample equality, morality, universality...
making mockery (attested bleed
courtesy flagrant historical extant bigotry,
chicanery, depravity... greed).
Hence, I step off figurative soapbox
dodging any lobbed missiles or rocks
no surprise bullied by same jocks,
who tormented me during high school
probably tattooed, pierced, and bald of locks
unlike yours truly, he sports self
as aging pencil neck geek
wearing non matching shoes and socks.
My Harvest Was at The Cross
Written: by Tom Wright
10-11-2016
I hear ministers expound on seed planting
And the harvest that I’m ever guaranteed
I’m perplexed by those who’s incessant ranting
Preach doctrines whose intent is to mislead
I never plant seed for a return expected
And God isn’t bound to a harvest windfall
It isn’t something owed and uncollected
This kind of teaching always fails to enthrall
My seed are applied to a debt of the past
Interest on a note that I can never repay
Jesus cared for me when I was an outcast
His death at the cross is my hope for today
No profession or calling is immune
From those seeking to separate you from something;
Tom