Long Yates Poems
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It was a day that classic Doctor Who fans would certainly hate.
We said goodbye to the man who starred as Captain Mike Yates.
His death was even more sad because he died on Christmas Day.
Millions of his fans have missed him ever since he passed away.
People loved his performances and Richard Franklin was his name.
Now that he's deceased, fans of Doctor Who will never be the same.
He starred in one episode of "Harry" and nine episodes of "Crossroads".
When he starred in "Emmerdale Farm", he starred in over thirty episodes.
He was a British actor with talent and that's something people can't deny.
It was sad and heartbreaking when his fans were forced to say goodbye.
[Dedicated to Richard Franklin (1936-2023) who died on December 25, 2023]
I wonder how a poet thinks?
Bound by circumstance or random occurrences,
as they rise and fall like changes in weather,
lost in the turmoil of cloud cover and threatening wind storms?
If I were a poet perhaps I would know of it,
and better understand and recognize
the idiosyncrasies of time and space, word and phrase
when feelings and emotions. love and hate rise and fall.
I am neither Shakespeare, Browning, Frost nor Bly
not even Whitman, Plath, Bishop, Yates or Hughes
but surely their thought and imagery portrayed
could tantalize and tweak my interest into some form of expression.
A new generation rises, hopefully, I am one
who often lacks conformity to form and meter, which might be best
for each of us who must write the words most meanigful to us,
cannot help but ring true to who we are within ourselves.
Greeting Angels
Caylee, are you listening?
I just wanted you to know
that we prayed that you’d get justice
but I guess it won’t be so.
And I wondered if you met Tesslynn
when you reached that heavenly shore
and was little Lattie waiting?
Lord there are so many more.
Noah, John, Luke and Paul
and little sister Mary Yates,
Adam, Amy, Nixmary and Amber;
only God could know their fates.
JonBenet’ and Riley Ann,
way too soon these children died.
Polly, Kelsey and Jessica;
oh Lord the tears I’ve cried.
Samantha, Austin and Justin,
Terrance, Erica and Lily too,
Liam, Cyrus and Javan,
Michael and Alex to name a few.
Caylee were they waiting
with the angels by their side?
And did Jesus hold you close
when you realized that you had died?
So many innocent children
abused and beaten and all alone.
Lord why didn’t anyone stop them,
hadn’t anybody known?
Lord help us to help the children,
help us to hear their cries,
before one more child is tortured,
before one more angel dies…
By the time we entered the halls of
High School, something had changed.
We saw each other at a distance, in the
Hall, across the campus. If we were still
friends, we certainly were no longer close
And buddies as we once had been, such a short
While ago. We were Yates, Yank, Fonzy, Bobbie,
Jordan, and me, Cj.
We cared for each other, but time and space,
new place and new faces changed all that.
How amazing to think that after elementary
school, we dispersed and went our separate ways.
I heard that Fonzy died some 50 years ago. I spoke to Bobbie once by phone some 25 years ago, but have not seen any of them for nearly 60 years.
Oh how refreshing it would be just to see
Any of my long lost buddies just one more time.
Darwin's animal is writing poetry,
Nietzsche's Ubermensch is learning idolatry.
Cockroach won't leave early,
He will wait for the bread crumbs dearly.
The embezzler is talking riches,
His nightmares are all about witches.
"THE GRADIENT" decides, "THE GRADIENT" presides,
"THE GRADIENT" is the tradeoff which can suffice.
Come as you may, come as you will,
Come to the wrongdoer and make him pay the bill.
Yates , Elliot & Ezra Pound are in talks with the devil,
Crawly has arranged rendezvous up the hill.
Poems have started rhyming,
But there is still no silver lining.
I want to go up the hill,
But the master won't agree to my will.
Mr. Frost is talking to me, he is asking me to tie the net,
And not to play tennis without a bet.
An old black and white movie
took me back to my childhood
when cowboys rode the range
Major Adams and Flint McCullough leading the Wagon Train,
and Hopalong's ten-gallon white hat
rode the brim of John Wayne's stagecoach in back;
with Roy and Dale saving every day
as Tonto and the Lone Ranger hi-ho silvered away;
Gil Favor and Rowdy Yates blazed the Rawhide trails
as Ben, Adam, Hoss, and Joe laid the Ponderosa tails;
The Mavericks never bet against The Rifleman and Gunsmoke truths
while Wyatt Earp, Matt Dillon, and Bat Masterson made the law fool-proof,
the Rebel and The Restless Gun kept horses ever on the run
and Cheyenne, Davy Crocket, and Daniel Boone
fought both Indians and Trappers without showdowns at noon
those western stars of early radio and television shows after school.
These were the stories of so many heroes, villains and more jewels
the cowboys and cowgirls, and their horses too
revived the west for the fifties youth,
a blast from the past
of the fading western stars.
At six foot four, and an eighth of a ton,
A gentle giant of a man, he was;
Father to three, and himself a fine son,
Devoted husband to Jean, without pause.
Phone man, painter, in ocean liners he cruised,
Accompanied by family and friends;
Sweet song in his heart, but never the blues,
Wisdom and patience, in life his clear lens.
He loved a recipe, and showing concern,
With actions, like always asking about you;
His life well balanced, his legacy earned,
Sharing his Jesus—the Gospel's Good News!
Taking time for grandkids, he humbly shared,
Both time and his money, an open book;
Bouncing upon knees, for great grands he cared,
Teaching scriptures, over breakfast he’d cooked.
Eighty-two years was his Lord’s master plan,
Fifty-eight to a soulmate, solemnly wed;
What mattered most, to this giver of men,
Was baking and breaking, life’s finest bread.
A Soldier whose honor, served us all well,
Humbly he loved, these United States;
His strong Christian faith, now clear as a bell,
His given name, you ask? Twas—Walter Yates!
(Rest in Peace Dear Friend. We miss you, sir!)
Middle of the crossroads, I’ve found myself in
To my left stand the poets, holding their pens
On my right are religions, kneeling behind a cross
In front sit the atheists, debating who’s boss
Behind me an army of agnostics, look totally lost.
Let the dual begin, they all fight for my soul
Bards throw the first salvo, a stanza to behold
But god’s people retaliate, Bibles are held high
Non believers point to a rocket, above in the sky
Ones behind me, sit on fences doing nothing at all,
Meanwhile the debate rages, almost to a brawl.
Poets bring out big guns, Poe, Yates, winning me over
Religious read their gospel, drawing me in closer
Atheists go all out, with Darwin and natural selection,
Agnostics still looking blank, without any direction
I’m been torn asunder, on life’s meridian intersection.
Bards say without poetry, I’ll never be truly free
God’s people counter, embrace Christ and find eternity
Non believers tell me look at facts, in human technology
I go join the ranks, of recused zombies behind me.
By
David Kavanagh
Buried beneath blood-shot baby doll eyes
where drowns dark truths dwelling empty despair,
finds five fraught faces from false idol lies
clinging cold-coffins caused by cruel affair;
Saddled by sorrow seen in mother’s stare,
washed while awaiting where water is filled
pouring in porcelain planned to be killed;
Languishing lost lacking warmth much less love,
ended in eerily foul episodes,
angrier now than Almighty above
mumbling murmurs in murderous modes;
Ripe for wrongs reversed through revengeful roads,
tantalized terrors too tempted to taste
blood brought by bathwater boiling in baste;
Chastised and chided, these children chilling
journey for justice with jealous intent,
mystically moving, maddened minds milling,
howling horrific while haunting content;
For sins suffered by souls salvation bent,
never they rest now, now nestled in night,
purposed, their plight, seeks parents punished right;
Aiming as arrows at any ones found,
dripping disgust at desolate devils,
grumble gigantic than gnash to the ground
lustfully lashing in lunatic levels;
As rancid bells heard, rusted rung rebels,
thoroughly thrashing throats within their reach,
fifty fingers, if figured, ten for each.
And why wouldn’t what withered weary do,
dragged desperate to death by der’lict brain,
taught terrible things when tongues tied untrue
incited mother inside turned insane?
Silence should swallow who speaks sour on slain,
judgments be gentle, gestate not Hell’s gates,
for these are the children of Andrea Yates.
9/16/2016
Submitted For: Scare Me Good Poetry Contest