Long Windowed Poems
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The dank petrichor of grainy night,
meters stand like gravestones,
the obsidian avenue slick as a sapphire,
windowed granite rising in sharp cut shadows,
wind gusting, tumbleweed clouds somersaulting
in a moonless ghost town.
I jingle keys with atonal sky
and listen to my footsteps on concrete
ticking like a clock.
There are places to be.
I hasten my step as rain drops resume,
one by one mounting into a riotous crowd.
Umbrella-less, I am soon sopping,
hair a wet carpet, suit a gray saturated tarp,
the briefcase and tote onyx boulders.
My car is still a block away,
but eventually I reach it
like a leaf washing down stream.
The tote slips off my shoulder
as I stoop to retrieve fallen keys
lying in a shallow puddle like a shattered talisman.
Suddenly I begin laughing,
dropping everything in the street,
my face skyward, arms splayed like a crucifix.
Now there is no tomorrow,
only the farce of my predicament,
standing like a drowned coyote howling
at the moon as though it would be there forever.
You can't imagine what its like to march on a sacred city,
to plunder and pulverize a Peoples' promise to Deity,
demolishing centuries of lavish labor, wasting offspring of ancient heredity,
destroying flesh, scriptures and stone with a savage Roman military synergy,
a discipline determined in it's destruction of dissention, inspired by ancestral victory,
politics was not our purview, methodical punishment was our specialty,
We were War's royalty, we were Legio XV Apollonaris,
monsters of Mars, messengers of Apollo, the juggernaut of Jupiter,
along with 11 other Legions led by General Titus, 60, 000 cuts of glory we stood,
for 3 and a half years we fought through Jewish guerilla ambush
asymetrical urban warfare welting our progress like a pirate pestilence
district after district, hell spell after hell spell we bled with chilled maneuver,
the Zealots were pyromaniacs, burnt sacraficers, their zeal and our bodies zesty wood,
in the Kidron Valley they flooded the streets " knee high " with oiled water
as the Cohorts waded through the lanes leery, a torch was tossed, flames rose in rush
240 men perished like spazing stars trapped in a box, our grief agape with a horrified crush,
as reprimand, Titus made the Legate sit in a tent with his chopped off ring finger
smoldering like hot sand in the hand of a marooned man aware of error in his plan,
the insurgents had men we called Fox Tails, desperate demons who knew how Hell began,
as a skirmish succumbed to our skill and number they would run into apartments,
dragging the fury of our blades into rooms of Hades revenge, these were fire entrapments,
the buildings would blaze like windowed volcanos, screams salting us with panic linger,
It was not uncommon to discover a missing Brother Legionary
castrated, and decapitated with a headedless eagle carved upon his chest,
don't speak to me about morals and mercy for I have seen and dealt the damage of rude death
hate becomes your Father, vengence your Mother, aggravated murder your cause
when everything you revere and fear merge to make a leviathen of life,
the " Chosen People " of God became the chosen target of annihilation,
Mount Moriah, mansion of Yahweh the Pariah would become capital of Divine crucifixion,
J.A.B.
This poem has been entered into the Roman Legion Contest
to honor Ancient Rome and the Poet who sponsored this historical subject.
A planned response, came past the clerk,
this self-absorbed, fanatic jerk
He took the note and with a grin,
then tossed it in the garbage bin
But missed it by a margin wide,
his error was so hard to hide
For many near the windowed scene,
collected data in between
And in a post of letters bold,
the story of this jerk was told
He fumed, he steamed, he cussed, he spit,
as viewers all refused to quit
It trended now as some might say,
the numbers added up each day
He hid his face in total shame,
for yes, he knew he was to blame
But he was merely, just a clerk,
he never saw himself a jerk
Just someone working for the boss,
at 9 to 5 it was a loss
Though now his name was everywhere,
his autograph they asked to share
As if he were nobility
or least, a big celebrity
He got a raise that paid him more,
his name in gold upon the door
A fancy car, an office chair,
a stylist to come comb his hair
And though no longer, just a clerk,
he still was a fanatic jerk
He treated others just like crap,
took afternoons to take a nap
He yelled at all his underlings
when they forgot to bring him things
He’d put his feet up on the desk
and tell the girls they looked grotesque
His orders he would scream and bark
from early morn till after dark
The new clerk couldn’t take this guy
and knew somehow he had to try
While emptying the garbage bin
he found the note the jerk tossed in
He read with glee, this crumbled note
for it was one the boss had wrote
Into his office, he did barge
to show it to the man in charge
He slammed his fist, his face turned red
“Send him to me,” is what he said
The jerk he entered with a grin,
the boss then showed the note to him
The man then spoke, he didn’t shout
but quietly, he said “Get out”
The jerk was soon out on the street,
he barely had enough to eat
His car was gone, his office chair,
his clothes a mess as was his hair
The fans who once came round his place,
now couldn’t bear to see his face
He couldn’t find a job to work,
for all now new he was a jerk
He died alone, an empty man,
inside a rusted garbage can
So here you have an ending tale,
if you’re a jerk you’re bound to fail
Hart Crane tribute
forsake our eyes
in a lovers cry
&sigh
shadows sweep decends
that
doubtful day:
a lie revealed
now proved
first seen
in its fall
on a cloud
beyond desire
a tide of voices
sleeves
of sound
wash away
slowly distills
clustering
then
sleeps
out of sight
singing low
of long ago
times rcalled
I used to see:
timeless
now torn
on wayward plight
silently
below
into the dan
rhythm
drew a crash of leaves
like
a tide of destiny
change
began
consummate&
free
dream no more
with
barren trees
without a rein
remember&
atone
its not too late
sands
are running
the hushed lands
home
to our own
we all
in thrall
while
time clears
in endless space
it
smiles
as in a cloud
of
infinity ahead
abandoned pastures
mumurless
blind ecstasy
& mutual glee
unvanquished space
&
chiselled heights
with
sleeping havens
none escapes
the vision
in our hands
now
let go
now more alone
one by one
to
grieve
the backward vision
through
the smoke
tinselled hands
through windowed panes
of
seasons
fleeting
palatial white
in a show
survey
not
heard before
in antiquity or
parentage
the heart is wrung
forsees
the end
with easy sight
on&on
for evermore
one
after
one
breath
made cry's
surpassing call
beyond
time
My world now
is lensed through a few
walled and windowed rooms
and a garden held within
a high fence through which
I take in views of the universe.
Galaxies turn in the swirling
motion caught in the gravity
inside a coffee cup
and further out, way past
the edges of a table,
ancient constellations flicker
still fuelled by embers
left by the fires of creation.
I see the boundary
of all that I know ripple
and diminish to a still,
stop at a point past which
my feeble instruments cannot go
and confront an infinity
that lies beyond
and plummets inward
towards the very centre
of myself.
Gratitude was my first reaction!
Then joy came skipping along
Humility hit me so very hard!
"Why me",hummed a loud tune
Then~I realized, I was cradling
and reading you under the light of
a winter moonl
It was a warm, close feeling.
As if I were in a mosaiced ,windowed
church at peace.
So many, dear poets, I did not know!
Nonetheless, you made my soul full
and with Christmas season's glow.
This is a thank you to the poets in it.
My poems are nothing compared to all
the great souls in it,
So much more real you are to me.
By the fireside's light~ the best, loving,
creative community.
12/11/2020
ROCKING
———————————-
Perhaps near you, too? Or
You may have a memory
Of a one separate soul
To the side —
Young and staring ahead,
Or an elderly life
Over by the windowed wall,
Just beyond the group —
Rocking
…Not to any evident music; nor
In a chair made for rocking; or, perhaps,
Out on a porch’s wooden step; or maybe
Sitting cross-legged nearby on the floor;
Or away, almost unseen
In a field of tall grass graced with sun;
Rocking
Immediately there on the edge
Of a kitchen chair, rocking
As constantly as breathing
In and out…
Not listening to the conversation?
Thus, not caring, it seems, about us!
Going on, on, gathering company
From the tempo of rocking
An interior transport
To some degree of comfort, which
(If we knew) we might
Envy…
But!
(How, surely…impolite!)
Right there! In our including
Space, so out of place!
As maddening as
someone standing
To crayon doodles
On the chapel wall!
Recalling rocking:
The bright, lovely girl who did this
Rocking, everywhere, even
With her thumb in her mouth,
Up to age 12. Oh, my!
While adults kept snapping,
“You’re not a Tot! Stop it!”
At her from outside the motion
Of her inner pendulum,
In the rhythm of
The seeking and keeping
Peace…The ebbing and flowing of
Peace…balancing gravity
With hip-tipping inertia
That keeps the rocking working
On the aching, the trials, the noise…
Rocking, so like
Swimming the channel distance
Of the hours spent between
Here and There. Of night. Of day.
Yet, to keep the dreams pouring forth
…Rolling in while even awake…
To refresh
As with the quenching
Power of Eucharistic wine
For heaven’s flights within.
Rocking centers the pulse;
Clears thought;
Calls on the soul; and may
Find life inside lulling,
To sing then string
All the collected moments into
A crystal necklace of
Too rare calm.
———————————————————-
12/12/21. (c) sally young Eslinger
Thanks be to God!
On the Straight
A stealthy mover on this silent passage
Parting the calm with rippled arrow
And purring rhythmic chug as friend
A distant bird sings a capella
Its painted wooden structure fore to aft
Sails the straight with house on back
As slow as a snail carving watery track
And loyal path beside
Fresh paint adorns its windowed side
By painter’s hand with expertise
Of floral motif and patterned line
Like oils to canvas
With stern to guide it on its way
At graceful pace to watch awhile
The passing scene to scrutinize
Of country and of town
Ahead the gates of sturdy lock
where calm meets turbulence
As the aqueous straight must even up
To different level
No longer impelled by equine power
And rarely used for mainstay trade
Just aggregate and people pleasure
But highly prized by one and all
Semblance veneer, a city's fear,
cadence for ears, all who are brave.
The rash of feet, like fleeing deer,
No rest until their souls are saved.
Canyons of steel and glass allow,
crossed windowed eyes that do not trust.
The same old story comes hollow
to the unconcerned, just like us.
Smack the facade, a headstrong plea,
from lack of yield on some cold ground.
For every crack, a fantasy,
and from each step, a hollow sound.
It's the snare of the promising,
the hit mode of the undeterred.
Not lacking the street-racked sounding,
by one, to be observed.
A thousand fearless and one bold fictions,
soles worn thin against the gray.
A pledge for their inclinations,
conquer another taxing day.
Bang the surface, a steady feat,
A benchmark of yearning we hold.
To gain a spot on this grand street,
Not to be measured with the old,
the failed, shattered, and the muted.
Who fell before they gained their goal?
We grow and push, we're not routed,
metro's our will, no claim, no hold.
Smash the dumb mask, a damnation,
It's evidence of what we face.
We tread ahead, we don't question,
Our nature molds a nonstop pace.
In this arcade, snakes slithered maze,
We find our meaning, find our grace.
Rest our weary bones on some chaise,
We're winning in this urban race.
Stalked digi-miles to cough out debt,
found in scruffy leather and frayed.
'Hail Mary' caused tears as they wept,
bills paid, I'm made whole, time for trade.
Form:
The cold wet wind blows to move the solid Oaks, to sway on a Winter's day. All things living are found hidden somewhere to escape the lonely cold. No children play where oft they do, instead the steam from the dryer vent floats across my many windows, making it seem even more cold, more...industrial. It's here in my silent windowed room there is a chilled but beautifully dreary perception which brings a feeling of contemplative thankfulness. It's here I feel protected like a creature burrowed down the Earth from a frightening world. I'm granted a blessing, to see the drizzle fall without knowing the sting of it's uncomfortably cold wetness. And my thoughts drift off to God.