Long Yaw Poems
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Into the buoyant blue of a summer sky
I throw my fortune and my hopes.
With wings and wonder I survey
the world above and need some time
up there before descending back to earth.
Advancing throttle up I climb, rocket
like and plumb, to check the heights
of clouds and skill, rolling left, then
right as in a dance, light
with release from gravity.
Before my plane escapes my vision, too, I guide
it over a graceful arch, until fast approaching
ground is all I see, and while succumbing
to the appetite of earth for things detached,
roll again and again in defiance, cutting
facets from the burnished blue.
Pushing hard to inverted flight, I see things
from a different point of view. Pressure
on the stick reminds me that up is down, and
I must concentrate to follow a horizontal path.
The Extra was made for this, I tell myself,
and brace for more.
Throwing sticks to the corner I force a snap. In a burst
of energy my wings become a blur. Like a wayward
child nose and tail go off track and need correction.
The stress on joints and structure is immense, yet
my plane obeys with no complaint, rebelling
only at my command to return wings level.
Like a metronome ticking over the rhythmic pounding
of my heart I count my way through a hammerhead:
“Throttle up and push, and, wait, and… release!
1 and 2 and roll and roll, and
1 and 2 and throttle back… rudder!”
The plane pauses in mid-air – a sentry in the sky - then pivots
on a point. Opposite aileron keeps me in a geometric plane,
and earthward bound once more I resume the beat:
“1 and 2 and roll: to canopy, and belly!
1 and 2 and push!”
The lines and arcs I draw through weather fair and foul
are my signature, the salient points of aerobatic discourse,
a test of nerves and steel, the embrace of fear.
Breaking through that wall, I emerge
free to explore the boundaries of my craft.
I must look beyond the attitude of pitch, roll and yaw
to see the art that I’m creating there
from the power and pull of wings through air.
Holding a precise line against the force
of Indiana winds or the vagaries of a Midwest storm,
with sunburned lips, lack of sleep or
a thousand other faults...
ah, there is the rub.
It is no easy thing, and still I try
to reach perfection, to control the direction
I will fly in that endless summer sky.
the roots – i.e. genealogy of words long held me
(no pun intended) held spell bound
e'en upon fertilization of ova and sperm viz – conception,
an acute sensory means n'er got drowned
out via the bubbling, dribbling, huzzahing...
(from within and without the womb) while in utero,
especially when me then young spring chick hen ova mum,
and cock strutting cock
(doodling his due tee) oft testes handsome dad found
their coop t'would be increased by another
(at that time no means prevailed to foretell gender,
but an old wives tale hatched
since time immemorial stubbornly persisted
if the husband put right heir (ear) to the ground
accompanied with petsmart skills of a blood hound
a close approximation could be discerned,
whether the swelling abdominal mound
would yield a son or daughter,
which second guess passed thru
the umbilical cord shaped grape vine as re noun
splendor – giving participants planning a baby shower
purchasing and showcasing an infant gewgaw
costing no mo' than a best seller by Ezra Pound
or a couple rolling stones,
preferably those flat versus being round
with assessment sans prediction per sex of offspring
offered slightly greater hedge Tibet
with recent introduction of ultra sound
nonetheless genesis (unbeknownst to either parent –
trapped in that role for a life time)
this fetus took a fancy to imbibing verbalization
that transpired between when shine
warmed the cockles and muscles of this parasite – ha –
expanding his vocabulary prior tummy birth in nine
teen hundred and...(th beh so thee ya haint tell in –
go ask aunt Roadie) or...find someone name Stein
beck, and give yaw self a pat on the back faw trine
plotting a tentative addition to family tree or
(what would turn out tubby more apropos) a vine,
cuz ma late mum referred tomb me as her little monkey
who when born deeply engrossed reading about urine
thence, when the pediatric doctor snatched the book –
BOY DID I WHINE
which out shrilled any wailing police car,
or emergency hospital siren
thus...i got christened RED (for short), yet code named 120 db
which translates as the decibel threshold for pain
even afflicting the dead poet Byron.
continues from part 1
And I to him: “Show me where I can find,
If you want that I bring your news then up,
Who is who foresees with so bitter mind”.
Then he put his hand at the yaw to grasp
Of one of mates his mouth to unlock,
Screaming: “This is the one whose voice has stop.
This, when was banished, then the doubt could stock
In Caesar, affirming that the supply
Was always late to arrive giving shock”.
Oh how much dismay appeared to imply
With his tongue fully in his gullet cut
Curius, who so boldly could reply!
And one who had his hands both cut somewhat,
Raising his stumps in that just dusky air,
So that his blood then made his face a smut,
Shouted: “Of Mosca memory you care,
Who, alas!, told, “End has anything done”,
Which for tuscan people was seed unfair”.
And I added: “And death of yours begun”;
Since those, summing pain to pain all the way
Went on as people who is crazy and won.
But I remained to look the souls array,
And saw a thing which then I strongly fear,
With any proof, to just relate I may;
Although my conscience looks to be sincere,
Thanks to good partner I have had at side
Under the shield of feeling to be clear.
I saw for sure, and still it seems it’s eyed,
A body without head to go on so
As went others of herd of badly died;
And his truncated head held by hair low
Hanging from his hand in a lantern guise:
And that looked at us telling “Oh me woe!”.
Of himself was doing himself light rise,
And so were two in one and one in two;
As it can be, it's known by who is wise.
When he walking reached then the bridge foot through,
He raised up his limb with his head well up
To get closer to us his words for true,
Which were : “You see by now the painful stoop,
You that, respiring, go and dead souls see:
Observe if any is worse than this you scoop.
And so that you to bring my news agree,
I am Bertram from Bormio, just the one
Who gave to the young king bad advice plea.
I made foes among them father and son;
Achitofel with Absalon had no more
And with David evil innuendoes done.
Since I divided people close with sore,
I bring my brain divided, oh weary!,
From this truncated where it was before.
So here see retaliation dreary”.
Author's note: This is an epic length poem that will have to be split into parts and will be serialized in successive posts.
Part 3
Dr. D. confers in panic
with Rex and boys at the Limbo Saloon
by now my eyes are ping pong balls
the final recommendation is for
ritual abandonment
Fra Umbilicus answers his page
in the monastery wing
and servos his motorchair up to my railing
intones the curse of the catacombs
think of it as original my sin er son
how the flat line fooled the experts
was on the 6 o'clock
perhaps it was the fact
that it went vertical
tripping alarm buzz circuits
from Hell to breakfast
like a reeking retching lurching
Nietschean Lazarus
a scarred and demented Universe
gave birth to itself
and the combined riotous
and cheering populations
of BURN WARD 3
and AMPUTATION WARD 2
and NARCOLEPSY WARD 666
cameras pick up deicide in the stairwell
a theomachian commotion
clangity-whaaang go the
oxygen tanks bouncing four flights
plopity-smash go
the out/intravenous bottles
whackety-crack
goes his portable Respiropump
screechety-eech
goes NEURO WARD's $90,000 Lobotoscan
cascading sympathetically
8er from Decatur
straining against the tube works
and their attached impedimenta
beneath the basement corridor steam pipes
awakening autopsy cadavers
with every labored pitch and yaw
bursting through the fire exit
on the firing squad's day off
out onto St. Hilarity's loading dock
he turns and waves howdy-ose amigoes
to the gathered throngs
Musela, Tex, the Santa Guadalupe Mariachis
slams Lucille the ambulance's door
severing all connections
arm tube nose tube mouth tube
chest tube piss tube
hits the throttle light bar and siren
and lets Lucille's squealing wheels
burn rubber clear down
to the land of rubber plantations
until the tank hits empty
and memory returns syllables
and lost parts of speech
the twin t's of utterance two swords
and fate the swindler of souls
has a blowout
at 90 at 5...at 15...
the separated twins
separate the H-O-R-I-Z-O-N
into before and after
rhyming less on the outside
than on the inside out
a vacation follows
From "Engine of Didactic Beauty" available on Amazon
http://tinyurl.com/nhfk6dr
Talk to me now...of day break
Of questing light
The sky
Salted with clouds
crimson with a spectrum of a rainbow at dawn
or
peppered with grey and raindrops
Sugared all
with the seeds of a new day
The question lies ahead
eventually we all must leave
I'm tired
Tired of mossy hills
Tired of rainbows
Spare me your rocks with they're glistening gentle
subtle hues
Spare me your mud brown here
red there
Spare me your ponds
your lily pads
Let me get over your lovely hidden pathways
you weeping willows
Oh please spare me!!!
Let me forget the walkways that stretch out so far
weathered wood and seagrass bound
that far out over the sands bring me
closer and closer
to your wild undulating blue so grey green blue sea
Don't dare me to love the sea anymore
That vast grasping calling tumultuous sea
Let me forget fine golf course grass yards
Forget me flowers
Forget me seeds
Forget me pine needle soft forest floors
and absolutely forsake me tall golden grasses that dip
and yaw in breezes
Forget me English gardens with archways
and ancient swings
with fancies and curiosity
Forget Me All fish ponds and lilypads
Let me forget the taste of oysters
Let me forget caviar on crackers with sour cream
Let me forget the taste of a fantastically season steak
hot dogs and home baked bread
Oh forbid me to remember the smell of a Christmas tree
and apples fresh from the orchards
Or peaches..plums and tomatoes hot from sun
Forbid me to want to water a flower again
Prevent me want to hear the sound of my footfalls
on cobbled paths
Beseech me never to think of salted air
Forbidden to me
to remember
what it was to kiss your lips
caress your every inch of silk
Swim in water
Dive and dip and flip
Never
to fly again when watching a bird
Resent and resist in me
the coo of my morning dove
on the day before her children leave her nest
I will not feel it again...I will not long for it if it is forgotten
I'll be ready to die then
Deny me all I love
Make me blind and mute and helpless and feeble first
That when I die
I die as I came
A stranger
wide eyed and awed
to the glory of life hereafter
O some day to come, it may be that time will bury my memory deep as the hidden sleep of those who lie in some forgotten churchyard;
but my judgment is that the future holds for me a fadeless crown of amaranth and gold.
O thou Anonymous Reader, when I, a bard whose graces are plenteous, and has a memory like the British Museum Library, and its material arranged as orderly,
When I, a bard, whose words sunset burst upon them with a variety of forms and colors like those the Divine Artist throws upon the evening sky : they are matchless words on birds and flowers and trees,
“Indeed no poet has given us more Nature poetry than he. In it all, one who reads is astonished at his wealth of simile and metaphors, at the music of his lines and the cooling freshness that delights on every page.” says the Scribes of Thebes, the men of the Scrolls of the Elders, the cavemen and Shamans.
When, I, a bard whose lyrics awakens the response in a common man’s breast, and makes him feel stronger for the day’s work and superior to the day’s faults and failures,
Strives in vain, to share my Art’s disgrace
And then I die like the unknown hero in silent rank beside my passion at the birth of dawn,
Without a wreath of laurel for a nation’s thanks,
You O Anonymous Reader, might have a careless glance upon my works!
So then, my dear reader, listen to my far-off call:
For thy sake I sit in the garden of books mating pen and paper with muse just so I could create a piece in our own image by weaving letters into words and words into figurative languages.
And now here it is, the broken thing, the created piece, happily waiting to be read but breathes in nostalgia like a patient peasant, suffering scorn and wrong, to labor in his people.
Why, O Anonymous Reader, do you make critics wonder why the skillful lowly bards write and write when no one seems to read,
When Fame and Success still refuse veneration,
And when the world gives but a wreath of weed?
O pity for thy writers show! When will thou appreciate the work of the ink?
So I may sleep a sleep remorse cannot affright ?
~Jamuel Yaw Asare
Verizon router won't connect to internet blues
(alternately titled: ma bell heave hubble
telecommunications gone south).
Best sung courtesy rotten dull liver:red worst
after words which, I gotta quench mine thirst
whereby think Botox lips zipped and pursed
hence impossible linkedin mission Mary Jane
and Buster Brown kisser darn it result socked
hermetically resigned, resealed and cursed.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Atheistic credo fuels (fossil)
jeremiad ordaining undevout
finds me cybersurfing phishing
for poetic effort to tout
March sixth tooth house sand twenty two
presents reasonable rhyming lit writ scout
herewith risk averse longfellow
on his figurative er... route
along information superhighway.
Netizen (generic and garden variety) Cain
not, nor able to don virtualtourist Lausanne
guise, nor Kiev hen twitter among Ukraine
literati earlier today (aforementioned date)
afflicting me courtesy GMO webbed strain
iambic phantom metered node hissing drain
analogous to evaporating Lake Pontchartrain.
Cuz unwitting byte size complicit accessory ghost
haunts micro electronic components machine most
culpable, feasible, n invisible Internet Protocol host
laryngeal mucous phlegm wreaks (think) burnt toast
esophageal acid reflux analogous metaphor, I post
downplaying feeling any reason to rhyme or boast
spun words masterly sharecropped along east coast.
CHORUS:
verse one:
Now, I gotta cure dem rascally misbehavin
data packets between computer blues,
cuz internet fixation yaw truly craven
lobbying scattershot spewing colorful hell raisin
lingo (awk curse) strung expletive epithets
extraordinary Luddite across cyberspace will lose.
verse two:
Hence dial up local kindergartner to troubleshoot
while he/she whistles Mozart's The Magic Flute
or visit nearest zoo to hire nasty, and shortish brute
critical electronic hardware, cuz aye got absolute
zero ability and even less legal tender slangy loot
thus Internet loper feel handicapped as deaf mute
unable to hear auld Donald trumpeting slo vac toot.
{This "Free Verse" entry Received HONORABLE MENTIONS
IN THE Intergenerational Poetry to Bridge the Generation
Contest UNO Elders & Youth track" 2017
UNIVERSITY OF OMAHA
OMAHA, NEBRASKA}
October 15, 2017
STILL HAVEN'T LEARNT THE ELDERS CONCERNS
Got older hope my live would be easier
But instead filled with societies " I told yaw so's"
High, low and no priced health care
Diseases, Alzheimer's, Dementia, Cataracts these are what the aged have
with other health issues and osteoporosis
Can't afford even the price of toilet tissue
still haven't leant elder concerns
still haven't leant elder concerns
Can't move as quickly can't race or jet
hard for me to get, get help
From family, church and so called friends
Rising cost of living;
Only the dead can afford?
There in a coffin their debts ignored maybe even forgiven
Friends most are as old as I am loneliness spending time with them and fam
means more than you think
wonderful wife/husband died gone on home to heaven
Alone more so than you think
Financial predators trying to sell me goods or services
they see me vulnerable
Grandchildren still sweet and loveable
I may be abused and neglected so unprotected
Aged eyes hard to see should I stop driving my vehicle
can't keep up with social climate changed computers, Tablets, Face Book
Twitter
Whatever happened to face to face, eye to eye communication?
What a nation?
They throw the elders away why the younger stay bitter
Again when will this nation learn?
They still haven't learnt the Elder's Concerns
09/26/17
written by James Edward Lee Sr.
submitted submission for " Intergenerational Poetry to Bridge the Generation Contest UNO Elders & Youth track" 2017
The unpredictable yaw of rolling seas,
as in life pummels us from side to side
randomly dictating its capricious ways
lacking logic the tossing grips us and seeks to take our lives
Death, like the ghost of Christmas past,
comes and expresses a tale of coldness and desolation
under the guise of light the dues it extracts from the living
accumulate like wrinkles on our faces the years pile on
The uncertainty of pandemics sends people into despair
mental frenzy engulfs societies
people wring their hands with worry
what happens if I get sick and lose my income?
At night I hear the sound of eighteen wheeler trucks rumbling
On the blacktop toward companies that make copious profits
past the foothills where coyotes cry nature's lament
exacerbating my approach to a precarious and worrisome future
Sometimes, I feel like a watermelon cut in half
exposed to the desert heat slowly drying up
or a taco at Christmas time or a paraplegic in a footrace
exposed in those places where I don’t belong
Leisure time for the working stiff is so elusive
yet now all I’ve got is time and plenty of it,
but there’s no leisure in it only worry
and does not give me needed rest
The yaws of life
seldom deviate from its variant course
but like ships at sea rising and falling in a tempest
our minds proceed at an ambiguous yet dangerous speed
With our hearts frozen in a delirium of past disappointments
they vanish the happy times into the ether of regrets
still we cling to those cherished happy time memories
when Life was more accepting of our youthful indiscretions
Our Ship of Life moves predictably toward an unknown horizon
unsteadily shaking us from side to side, up and down
like loose apples bobbing in an ocean
with our paths uncertain unfolding as we hold on.
Copyright © norberto franco cisneros
The unpredictable yaw of rolling seas,
as in life, pummels us from one side to the other
randomly dictating capricious ways
arbitrarily gripping our lives
Life, like the ghost of Christmas past,
comes at night, tells its tale and is gone
but the dues it extracts keep mounting
like wrinkles on our faces the years pile on
The uncertainty of pandemics sends people into despair
mental frenzy abounds,
they wring their hands and worry
what happens if I get sick and lose my job?
At night I hear the sound of eighteen wheeler trucks rumbling
toward companies that make copious profits
past the foothills where coyotes cry nature's lament
exacerbating my precarious and worrisome future
Sometimes, I feel like a piece of watermelon
exposed to the desert heat slowly drying up
or a taco at Christmas time or a paraplegic in a footrace
exposed in those places where I don’t belong
Leisure time when needed is so elusive
yet now all I’ve got is time and plenty of it,
but there’s no leisure in it only worry
and does not give me needed rest
The yaws of life
seldom deviate from its variant course
but like ships at sea rising and falling in a tempest
they proceed at full speed
Our Ship of Life moves predictably toward an unknown horizon
unsteadily shaking us from side to side, up and down
like loose apples bobbing in an ocean
with our paths of uncertainty unfolding as we hold on
With our hearts frozen in a delirium of past disappointments
they vanish the happy times into the ether of regrets
still we cling to those cherished memories
when Life was more accepting of our youthful indiscretions
maybe, but Life being what it is, we cling to the good feelings experienced
that we come to accept as the ebb and flow of life evolves
and pushes us toward a far horizon
one we shall never know.