Long Worn out Poems
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Could it transpire? To set a nation on fire.? Could Lowe drop
The boom.? If it happens? It must be soon.' In the cauldron
Of insanity in this un-normal and dystopian governed inhumanity.' Can the damo-clean blade be turned upon who
Had it made in turn? Strike the iron thats been made hot.' Be bold
And decisive and tear out the rot.' Show your mettle and
The people will cheer.!! Banish any doubt or shadows or
Fear.' Draw your battle line and raise a standard.' Trust the
People to know how big is the gambit..Its halfway to freedom now
Get ready to push.' In true leadership burn retreats worn out
Bridge.' Forward they are waiting.! for an hour such as this
From dissillusion raise their spirits, offer integrity and then
Go with it.' Ask for support lay the truth out that is the all.' Unite and
Conquer as its been done before.'
Where did Midnight go, oh, where could he be?
So many were looking, but this did not include me.
His secret is safe, I know where he will often hide.
I listen as the children run about calling, outside.
Why don’t you tell them? My husband asks me.
They are having a great time, don’t you see?
But they will never find him, right? Asks Lee.
He does not know children as well as me.
They do find Midnight, and they gently scoop him out.
Of the pot where he was hiding, without whisper, purr or shout.
They carry him around and baby him, and I see he loves it so.
He will be worn out, ready for a nap, when the kids finally go.
She worships her western horizon
toward rippling river, sparkling, hinting of lightning pasts and futures.
Leonardo is wrong.
This seems unlikely, perhaps judgmental,
harsh,
even so, his God clearly reconstructed in his well-owned glorious image,
universal God of Creative Majestic Architecture.
But, for her, as she watches bruised red wilt into painfully pale lavender,
over black night's forest line,
cerebrally alone,
sacredly uniting
nature speaks through Gaia's rich-timed EcoLogos Voice,
sometimes in pastel skies and meadows,
sometimes in relentlessly lavish vibrant green,
sometimes Full Moon, New Moon,...
Rain, Wind,
sometimes sublime on her tin roof,
whistling through worn-out window frames.
If God were made in her image,
creation would speak in reasoned fertile seasons of shadow dark, and lightning bright,
synapses of climax, echoing down river valleys
rolling out grand majesty of thundering EcoLogos,
perfect rhythms,
rain beating Earth's enlightening future.
It would have been more revolutionary
and probably therapeutic,
most certainly lovelier, had Leonardo portrayed God as Earth's logos voice
swirling light as foggy surf,
tidal river waters gleaming wide at dusk,
narrower in dawn's first light,
a ribbon flowing light emerging west
reflecting waters greeting eastern sky
dawn revived again
Gaia's morning river emerging histories
translating Sun's architectural
whispered sensual
nightly might.
It's the changing of the season
You should have told me.
I've worn out all my welcomes.
So I don't love you anymore.
I won't be knocking on your door.
Yes, you say you won't forget me.
I see it's the rainbow moon out tonight.
Though the summer days drifted off-site.
You might forget me towards morning light.
For I shall have already forgotten you.
I've watched you many times come and go.
Through the shadows of the crystal moon.
I trace the memory of your face in my dreams.
I stare at the picture of you on the nightstand.
Feel the coldness of you come over me.
As the mystical lover's moon shines outside my window.
10/07/ 2013 12midnight
I ain’t enough, and I know that truth
Like a blade in the chest or a cracked front tooth.
She’s gold-dust real, while I’m broke and bruised—
Tryna be a king in worn-out shoes.
She walks in rooms, they freeze in awe,
Whole world bends to her silent law.
Me? I’m background noise, her “almost-there,”
She could blink once and they’d all be there.
I hustle hard, give soul and skin,
Still feel like I ain’t ever gonna win.
Every joke I drop, she half-way laughs,
I write love in books; she skims right past.
She don’t need saving — she’s fire, not glass,
But I keep bleeding just to make her ask.
Like if I shine bright, just one more time,
She might say “damn, you’re finally mine.”
But deep in the dark where my demons feed,
I feel like a draft pick she didn’t need.
Like I got lucky — a glitch in fate,
And she’ll wake up soon, say “this was a mistake.”
I scrub my flaws, I polish pain,
Tryna earn her heart like it’s some campaign.
But what if love ain’t earned or won?
What if I’m just not the one?
What if she stays just long enough
To prove I’m right — I’m not enough?
What if I break just to see her free
And she don’t even turn to look at me?
I ain’t her type — I’m her pause, her maybe,
The good guy role in her coming-of-age story.
She’s lightning, thunder, a thousand suns,
I’m holding candles, dropping puns.
But still I stay, and still I try,
Stackin’ stars to gift her sky.
‘Cause even if I ain’t “the one” she needs,
I’ll be the man who plants the seeds.
So when she leaves — ‘cause queens don’t beg —
I’ll rise alone on shattered legs.
Knowing I gave more than enough of me,
Even if she never truly did see.
I'm exhausted, I'm tired, my legs feel like led,
My bones all let out a sigh.
I haven't done anything to wear myself out,
Still I'm exhausted and I just don't know why.
I got plenty of sleep, watching tele all night,
My eyes shut by around about four.
And my internal clock woke me briskly at seven,
When my lungs let out a monstrous snore.
And I ate healthy food with energy drinks,
Fish and chips, big Mac and a beer.
Yet I'm still sitting here, tired, worn out and flat,
A bit hazy since my head is not clear.
I'm beat and exhausted after a full day at work,
I don't know why I've lost all my might.
I guess I'll relax with fish and chips and a beer,
And watch tele again all of tonight.
Tomorrow you will wake up
drag yourself out of your bed
even when your mind is tired
so is every cell in your body.
Then you will ponder
over the idea of your existence
while your body habitually
gets drenched in hot shower.
May be you will have ideas
of the grand escape you dream of
while you munch your toast
or wonder of your might-be fantasies
while your throat gulps warm coffee.
With lumps of mundane thoughts to puke
while peeking over the traffic enroute
with people buzzing their way through
you will remember that forgotten city
that leaves you wondering who you are.
And when you press buttons on the elevator
you will think of leaving a footprint there
reminiscing the way you breathe atop that old cliff
while your feet walk their way to work
all you have been thinking about is to leave
when you really don't know where to.
But even though your mind is clueless
for discovering another journey
now that you are at the end of one
with all the glory it has offered
you will hope of finding it the next day
while you return to your bed at night.
And with a million oscillations in your mind
like the unwritten pages of your story
you will remember having read somewhere
on a worn-out whiteboard in blue
'Existence is a struggle'
and you will hope to write some day
'But it is worth finding'.
May 9, 2020
For BRIAN'S CHOICE 8,any form,any theme
Winner: Third Place
She stroked his hand in passion and gave him life’s ultimate blessing
It’s time to go in love and peace she would miss his gentle caressing
Strokes of desire and passion from a wild sharp and emotional mind
His loins desire and poetry the spoon for her moon hot and entwined
It seemed an eternity since they first kissed and he gave her a peach
Gathered union sea shells and driftwood and built a hut on the beach
Tides had moved their Universe since heaven and haven joined together
Tickled their fancy lust and compassion and in turn she gave him a feather
Of lightness and light and they talked through memories and surrender
Now it had to be the final farewell from this journey of joy and splendour
Thank you and let’s not fall prey to gloom sadness but rather kindly rejoice
In those one thousand and more moments since we made that firm choice
Do you remember how everyone was against us and not gave us chance
Just a fling an illicit affair must be all about sex and mere flirtatious dance
But we stuck to each other like a butterfly courting a lavender blossom
Licked lips and skinfuls of perfume your hands on my quivering bosom
Read books together after you swam in my ocean under Turkish lights
Flew on magical carpets to ends and beginnings of daylight and nights
With glow worms and dolphins we mounted our kindness and destiny
in crescendo we climaxed on satin sheets in our fantasies breathlessly
The bedroom is now adorned with an IV drip stand and a catheter bag
You look haggard and worn out are so exhausted and wave the white flag
One more pull on the trigger and I honour your wish with one last shot
Syringe full of morphine full to the brim a promise when tying the knot
Farewell my Prince travel well for when you enter the kingdom beyond
I know you’ll wait for me patiently until in essence we realign that bond
Let us not talk any longer I shall simply hold you in my knowing embrace
Our infinity last forever anywhere anyhow and always in that new place
15th September 2020
I usually spend my summer vacation outside, all day long,
Enjoying the flowers, the bushes, the trees, and the birds that I have planted and or fed.
I should be congratulating myself for cleaning out the garage,
But I am too worn out from the humidity to move. All I want is air conditioning, and the TV.
My school system does not have a mandatory retirement age.
Good thing, as I intend to go out at age 92, feet first, in a body bag.
This summer vacation junk is killing me.
It simply is not the kind of fun I am used to.
Not good enough for the likes of me.
Not likeable at all after the first
Two weeks, which means
I have six weeks of ugh.
When I was younger, I laughed when
I heard about the eighty-nine year old
Kindergarten teacher who got mad
And quit when they re-assigned her
To sixth grade. They had been trying
To get her to retire for twenty years.
She had taught kindergarten for
Sixty-seven years.
Now I get it.
"What is life but a succession of preludes to unwritten words . . . "
Quote by Constance La France
Oil just few drops left; wick irrecoverably worn out;
Wet match box; just a single stick; I strike, yet, with no doubt;
Midst terrible tempests, torrential rains and thatch-roof-leak,
Clings to a nook of that cracked chimney, survival seen bleak;
I shield the flame; count the hour; will day, yet, before time dawn?
Who will steal? What? With these thoughts I serenely sleep, fears gone...!
17 November 2022
WRITING CHALLENGE - ''V'' Forms Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France