Long Wrings Poems
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He will wipe away every tear from their eyes.
there will be no more death or mourning or
crying or pain, for the old order of things has
passed away. Revelation 21: 4 (NIV Bible)
I AM IMMORTAL
Explode from mortal to immortal,
in one forgotten breath.
Intake of first light.
Born, through the tunnel of my despair.
First images in black and white.
Mind snaps new memories…
I’m nearly breathless, as he comes into view,
hand extended - the one pierced for my transgressions.
And funny, my heart is racing, I’m sweating…
Salty tears run down my cheeks onto my shoulders.
I’ve hit my knees, weeping, at his bare feet.
His gentle hand upon my head,
he says, “arise my child.”
I obey, and blink through torrent tears.
I don’t see, but I feel the softest cloth – like cashmere,
rub over my face, catching each tear -
not one is missed.
I hear the sound of tinkling water.
The snow white cloth, I see it now!
He wrings out the shroud, and continues to wipe away
my misery.
“Cry, my child. Let it all out.”
He speaks to me as my mother would, lilted words.
Afterward, he points to a bottle, takes out a permanent ink pen –
Oh yes, they have those in heaven!
Writes a name. I look up at him, with questioning eyes.
Someone’s name, an unknown to me has been written.
Jesus smiles.*
“I’ve named you my child.”
I instantly hear the pronunciation, and register the meaning,
which, I believe, will take me all of eternity to dissect.
How beautiful, my name rings coming from pure lips!
“Come,” he says, “come and meet your family.”
We walk together, inside open gates - pearly gates.
I feel as though I’ve entered oz!**
Vivid rainbow colors, and colors I’ve never seen before!
Happiness like chains falling off…
like heavy burdens laid aside…
like a fresh shower…
like a new found tropical waterfall…
And I see exuberant faces. I know each name,
even those I’ve never met before.
I’m treated like a bride, an assembly line that takes their time,
hugging me, kissing each cheek. You see,
I have eternity. I am immortal!
2/19/2017
*smallest verse in bible – Jesus wept (John 11:35). In eternity,
I’ve adapted mine to say, “Jesus smiles.”
**L. Frank Baum’s book Wonderful Wizard of Oz. Movie
starts out in black and white then turns to color as the
protagonist enters Oz.
Ben Sana Mecburum: “You are indispensable”
by Attila Ilhan
translation by Nurgul Yayman and Michael R. Burch
You are indispensable; how can you not know
that you’re like nails riveting my brain?
I see your eyes as ever-expanding dimensions.
You are indispensable; how can you not know
that I burn within, at the thought of you?
Trees prepare themselves for autumn;
can this city be our lost Istanbul?
Now clouds disintegrate in the darkness
as the street lights flicker
and the streets reek with rain.
You are indispensable, and yet you are absent ...
Love sometimes seems akin to terror:
a man tires suddenly at nightfall,
of living enslaved to the razor at his neck.
Sometimes he wrings his hands,
expunging other lives from his existence.
Sometimes whichever door he knocks
echoes back only heartache.
A screechy phonograph is playing in Fatih ...
a song about some Friday long ago.
I stop to listen from a vacant corner,
longing to bring you an untouched sky,
but time disintegrates in my hands.
Whatever I do, wherever I go,
you are indispensable, and yet you are absent ...
Are you the blue child of June?
Ah, no one knows you—no one knows!
Your deserted eyes are like distant freighters ...
perhaps you are boarding in Yesilköy?
Are you drenched there, shivering with the rain
that leaves you blind, beset, broken,
with wind-disheveled hair?
Whenever I think of life
seated at the wolves’ table,
shameless, yet without soiling our hands ...
Yes, whenever I think of life,
I begin with your name, defying the silence,
and your secret tides surge within me
making this voyage inevitable.
You are indispensable; how can you not know?
Attila Ilhan (1925-2005) was a Turkish poet, translator, novelist, screenwriter, editor, journalist, essayist and reviewer. Keywords/Tags: Turkey, Turkish, Translation, City, International, Leaving, Depression, Absent, Absence, Parting, Separation, Distance, Loss, Break Up, Soulmate, Soulmates, Love, Lovers, Companionship, Passion, Desire, Longing
Behold the humble Cowbird, such an evolutionary quirk.
Somehow nature taught this bird to be a first-rate jerk!
When it comes to low and dirty tricks no other bird can match it;
She lays an egg in her neighbor's nest; leaving them to hatch it!
She says she’s far too busy; "I’ve got to follow the herd".
I say that she’s just lazy! You conniving cowardly cowbird!
When her ample hatchling sheds its egg, the bugger's just not fair.
It crowds its nest mates to the ground and eats more than his share!
Sound familiar? I hope to shout! Of all things that annoy . . .
The cowbirds in the office here act out this scornful ploy
By dropping projects on my desk, ill-thought, half-baked at best;
Expecting me to hatch them out and make room in my nest!
Our bosses do this all the time, but I reckon that's their lot,
But what of Slow Joe down the hall? I can’t believe this rot!
He hangs around and wrings his hands, judging my ambition;
Taking potshots while I sweat to bring his work fruition!
The problem with this cowbird gig; the thing that gets my goat
Is that cowbirds get promoted, and I don't get a vote!
This is small of me, I admit; this outrage misdirected.
Cowbirds will always tick me off, at least 'til I'm perfected!
Many people like poems written with ordinary words.
Some that jestfully tell about life in ordinary ways,
even though life is far from ordinary,
They want poems that lighten their days.
Enough with the highfalutin language, they say.
Start writing words common folks understand.
Bring back the use of everyday words.
Oh, you want idioms (words that are canned).
I love the feel of the silken poetic words,
that tickle the ears and whisper to the soul.
they wrap your thoughts in gossamer silk,
both pleasant and bitter their goal.
Writing poetry is a road strewn with boulders.
Life wrings itself out upon our pages.
Where there's beauty, we're often drawn to the dark
found hiding behind it on various stages.
We find ourselves writing about love that threatens,
or long ago left, storming out the door, kicking aside
hope like pebbles. Or, crawling out with a whimper and
a fearful glance, then running: words we cannot hide...
ordinary words.
You roll over the edge of an eyelid, measuring your body
through a window.
Once you fit, you go outside of yourself
where the sky is rising.
A part of you is stirring coffee. Another part is beside the
windowpane
glancing edgeways into your tongue.
Crows crash out of bare branches. The wind is in
from lost town.
You find yourself observing the nerve endings of bare branches,
even though the trees you are watching
are made of blood-filled dendrites
pushing through thoughts.
Robins flush out snow drifts, leaping like tigers. You shake
mist out of your shoes, follow claw marks.
You can see clouds swimming in the dim fathoms,
where geese fish for meadow grass.
Roads are passable. Wind-whales plow through
narrowing perspectives,
pushing insomnia ahead
of a dark sleep.
Freezing rain wrings eyes into hands that hide inside
closed fists.
Because of the cold, there are warm regions of you
that will not surface today.
Dawn hovers in-between night and day.
For a long moment
gray ghosts pluck the ground like scavenging gulls.
The smoky rose burns bright in the embers of my soul
From paradise to earth the angels fall softly
Wrapping their wings around me
They keep me hanging on
They keep me hanging on
I see the colors of heaven dancing like doves
And I feel the love
It's like a flower in the dark
Whispers of lonesome breathes disappear
When the angels come near me,
I keep hanging on
I keep hanging on
Angels, they keep me hanging on
Until the rose has turned to fired embers
Without a sound she rises from the ashes
Of the past, alive reseeded
Re-magnetised,
I'm hanging on, cuz they never gonna leave me
The angels, they keep me hanging on
Forever.
Her petals never shall wilt again
They will upsurge in every peak of passion
For when the body dies, the love of the thriving remains
It keeps me hanging on
It keeps me hanging on
My heart wrings from the sheer honesty
Of her echoing choruses
I feel peace from the matchless aroma
Their wings are wafting me to sleep
I wish only to dream in her grip
To catch her transparent essence
Keep me hanging on
Keep me hanging on
With a strike of love
With a wick ever sustaining
And a flame ever burning
Downward to the dust,
Upward to the heavens
I will know that I am needed
I will know that I am real
--
This was a collaboration written with Mystic Rose
Inspired by the song Magnetised, by Tom Odell, and the picture above.
I walk the ambitious lines of laughter
I wallow beneath the unsavory sky black.
I could wait and explain the feeling of losing a home
Or I could wait until I forget.
Dirt beneath my bloody nails
Sweat and blood in my fallen hair
I bury my thoughts:
Six stories down, six miles away, six feet deep.
The shovel stands taller than me
I am not hurt, I am not in pain
My head feels heavy
My heart feels empty
I cannot stand or feel my legs.
You whisper in my unwashed hair
I feel it and I am realigned with care.
I am outside in the cold far from my home
I am where I buried them.
Slowly, I drag the dirt away.
The closer I get the more I can hear your whispers
Mundane words become sacred
A hope in my mind newly bloomed.
I see it, a rock.
Buried in a hole
I hold it and feel your hands on my neck
I hear the last things you said to me before you died
I see the last times I saw of you before you died
I plead but can barely muster a sound
The story ends in my head
It’s the same as the first time that I will never forget.
It’s the death of my family, my home once again.
Tree sap flows from my eyes
It sticks to my heart, and it wrings it dry.
I fall asleep in my prison of mud
Tired, alone, afraid, without love.
I walk home with shaky hands
And try to find a way to forget
So, I can do it all again.
So, I can see your face undead.
At last, by night, that tarries late,
they hurry home, to Father's rage,
without a chance to plot their way.
The floodgates fail, as the young miss cries.
A handsome lad, pleads with his eyes,
while telling tales, of how and why
their carriage failed, with strokes of luck
which stuck them on the muddy trail
This fate that the chokes the airless room,
has clouded starlight in their eyes,
and fills the mood with doubts and gloom.
~
An angry Father, waiting long,
behind a frown, as sun goes down
then, with the rise, of devil's moon,
he hears the drum of horses hoofs,
that come at last, and none too soon!...
He had watched the clock count off the hours,
with endless pacing, of the floors.
While mother, fair, and worrisome,
in wilt despair, will hold him now,
to keep his anger in control.
She wrings her hands, and silently
prays her sweet lass, innocently,
was not delayed by guiles of love,
which meant no harm. But with such charms,
was this suitor captive of her smile?
Or were they then so swept away,
by winsome songs, and star's display,
by all love's wiles, and moonlight rays?
Young damsel, fair, who stole the hour
is left a flower, quite untouched
but as a suitor now he must
declare his honor and his hand
'Tis that.....
of which they will demand !
____________________________________________________________
For the Contest Inspired by the painting of Charles Haigh Wood
Sponsored by Isaiah Zerbst
9/19/13
A distant dampness wrings the air.
A weight most profound presses chest
as indrawn breath holds silent;
in the stonehedge of overwhelming gloom.
So, the mighty have fallen
auguries of a mortal doom.
Without missive,
bluestone bones, stanchions silhouette
onto a plane of pastel sky.
Gargantuan, they rise, a tomb.
So, the mighty have fallen
auguries of a mortal doom.
Brittle brown blood expunged
by millennium three,
the still, symbolic, oak forest rises.
Frozen sarsens, five, forming an open grove.
Megaliths beaconing a golden eastern dawn
So, the multitude will rise within the circle
without earthly substance, soul;
through green grasslands loam
ashen augury of a different tome.
Her tears fall like rain on a borrowed shore,
A quiet deluge, seeping through seams,
Staining the fabric of a life not hers—
His shirt, his collar, his cuffs worn thin,
Drenched in the salt of a love forbidden.
She weeps for him, the man she holds
In the hollow of her chest, a stolen flame,
A fire that warms her, yet chars her soul.
Each drop a confession, a mute apology,
To a heart that beats for what it cannot claim.
She traces the threads with trembling hands,
His scent a tether, his warmth a ghost,
Her love a river with no mouth to run,
Pooling in silence, drowning her slow.
The wrong woman, they call her—
A thief of glances, a beggar of time,
Yet she gives all, her tears the proof,
A currency spent on a debt unpaid,
Soaking his clothes with her breaking truth.
And then the wife, the keeper of vows,
Lifts the sodden cloth from the basket’s weight,
Her fingers brush the damp of grief not hers,
A stain she cannot name, yet feels too well.
She washes the shirts in a rhythm old,
A ritual of care turned bitter with knowing—
The tears of other women weave through the warp,
Heartbreak stitched into the weft of his wear,
A tapestry of sorrow she scrubs in vain,
For the water runs clear, but the pain remains.
The wife’s hands pause, the suds grow still,
She senses the echo of a stranger’s ache,
A chorus of fractures pressed into his skin—
How many tears have kissed these sleeves?
How many hearts have wept their claim?
She wrings the cloth, and with it, her peace,
The laundry a shroud for a marriage worn thin,
Each tear a thread unraveling trust,
A silent war waged in soap and rust.
The wrong woman cries, the wife washes on,
Two souls bound by the man between,
His clothes a battlefield, soaked and cleansed,
A map of longing, a ledger of loss.
One loves in shadow, one in light,
Yet both bleed red beneath the strain—
Tears that fall, and hands that mend,
A cycle of hurt with no clean end.
For love, unshared, is a wound too deep,
And the shirts he wears bear all they weep.