Long Yawns Poems
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she flittered, she flew
taxing her wings, little sputtering things
with each teeny-tiny flap - a sparkle of gold
twinkled her wee little sky
up
up
up
she goes
faerie friends laughed at her goal
to see the heavens from Redwood Mount
the tree tickled by her effort
and sparkling breathless
arrayed with golden boots, skirt
then shirt
she lands and sleeps
for awhile dreaming of stars
circling her weary nest
maternal arms gently wrap
around this teeny-tiny force of nature
she yawns and sees the dawn
colors imagined only on the ground
paint the horizon
she waves her wand
and captures specks
her pointy toes will touch the earth
after the sunshine of Summer
the hallelujah winds of Fall
brisk snow of Winter
and in the flowery Spring she lands
as the faerie applause explodes
barely whispering in the ear’s of a gnat
1/5/2019
—Of Wings, Hooves, and the Silence That Commands—
“Begone,” the taper breathed, “ere thou be bright
within the gold that shall devour thy frame;
mine aureole is honeyed, yet o’ernight
death keeps his masque within the heart of flame.
Yet still the moth, bewitched beyond release,
did seek his pyre as though he sought for peace.
For what availeth counsel when desire
hath made the wit its tributary thrall?
He saw the pyre, yet deemed its lucent fire
more dear than life, and heeded not the call;
till, through the last, incandescent hour,
his ruin wore the regalia of power.
So with the steed—rebuke him not with scar,
nor flay the hide whereon his wild blood beats;
a whispered word may travel farther far
than iron curb or spur beneath his feet;
yet let his mistress veil her face away—
and all his thunder shall forget the day.
No rein constrains him; no imperious hand
hath mastery of his tempestuous might;
the stable yawns upon the moonlit land,
the wet leaves glimmer in the argent night;
the whole wide welkin bids the creature flee—
yet something absent hath commanded, “Be.”
What strange puissance hath silence won o’er bone,
what unseen sceptre reigneth o’er his will,
that he, whose hooves might shake the earth alone,
stands hushed where every road beyond lies still?
The moth mistakes the fire for paradise;
the steed beholds her silence in his eyes.
The moth became the ash the fire desired;
the steed grew still beside her silent door;
both gave the breath by which their love was fired,
yet heard no voice they had been waiting for;
the fire burned on; her silence answered, “Stay”—
and both obeyed it, dying, into day.
I feel trapped, like a cloud lost among the hills of memory,
And if I told you this, maybe you'd give me a gentle pat on the shoulder,
Saying it will be fine, but beneath my words yawns an abyss,
An ocean of unrest stretched beneath my skin, like spilled ink.
I wonder if you would truly understand, if you could feel,
This earth's glue sticking my soul to the night's mud,
Sandy soil staining my clothes, making me look at the empty sky,
Pleading with the stars to take me back, to wrench me from this prison.
If I told you my heart, once iron, now fragile as an illusion,
Yearns for the Moon's embrace, where no one would make me feel unwanted,
Where I would belong, not be the ugly duckling, not be the black sheep,
Would you have mercy on me and hold me? Would you make me feel at home?
Or would you too make me feel unwanted? In the stream of my consciousness,
Thoughts flow like an endless river, I wonder if anyone could understand,
The desire to escape to a place where I need not pretend,
Where I don’t have to swallow my words and hide my dreams in torn pockets.
If I told you my soul feels empty, that I've left a cold home,
That my emotions are victims of time, that my heart has never been heavier,
Would you still pat me gently on the back and say, “It’s okay”?
In this monologue of the soul, I seek an answer among the silent stars.
Transient time flows quickly by
like windswept ripples in changing seas
as fleeting forms shift, then fade away
a relentless call from currents deep.
As sunlight glints with liquid winks
life teems in time beneath its wake
moments turn into whirling hours
that funnel and spout in tide and spray.
And when the vast blue sky grows tired
and yawns as sunset streaks the sky
its shifting clouds will stop and stretch
as a weary day settles in for the night.
Time then repeats it’s rhythmic songs
through months and seasons, with varied tunes
by winds or rains or thunderstorms
or by a fresh soft breeze in June.
Time carries us along without a reprieve
within its realm we live, move and breathe
we sail, like ships, through changing tides
‘til in death’s wake, we take our leave.
10/17/2018
I know you face a darkness, nigh unknown,
But as with all such hardships,
You won't face it alone ...
Before you yawns a crevice, dark and deep,
Still, I am with you, Brother,
To light its somber keep ...
And if you find its fearsome depths too wide,
I'll put you on my shoulders,
And we'll reach the other side.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Kimo Therapy" Poetry Contest, Carol Connell, Judge & Sponsor.
~ 1st Place ~ in the "Mid August 2018 Standard Any Form Or None" Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Judge & Sponsor.
Ripples intrude in silence without cause,
strange since serpentine desire spirals rest,
so in witness mode, from our heart abode,
awareness self-aware, just looking on,
flows in and out of these dream forms with ease,
relinquishing thought that’s ego begot.
Attached to body-mind, heart is fear fraught,
blindly obeying an unknown God’s laws
but do what we will, we don’t get release
and thus life itself, begin to detest,
dooming our soul to drown in shame and scorn,
burdened lifelong thus, under ego’s load.
Finally one day, weary soul bellowed,
‘struggle and strife in life has come to naught,
so shifting from head to heart, now reborn,
may pristine presence escape from fear’s jaws,
acting no longer at ego’s behest,
freed once for all from the thinking disease’.
We may stand erect or walk on our knees,
free will choosing either high or low road
and all it takes is to treat life in jest,
refusing to be in illusions caught,
clinging no longer to whatever was,
for each breath we take, ushers a new dawn.
Nonchalance yawns, seeing fear forms begone,
whence mind of our heart begins to unfreeze
and in timeless time false self dies because
with turbid thoughts slowed, we flow in monk mode,
living authentically as we ought,
with joy embarking on our God search quest.
Vaporised soul has no load on its chest,
dancing playfully like a unicorn,
having reduced erst attachments to naught,
nurses no demons that it needs to please,
lets bliss set aflame every body node,
transcending space-time in the vibrant pause.
Oh hermit, we’re both the effect and cause
and once softened attention has mellowed,
carefree soul sees life as a divine tease.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Trapdoor groans—not ghosts,
but hinges shedding rust like snake skins,
old wood sighs beneath the weight of years,
a dry cough of timber settling into itself.
Sunlight, thick as poured honey,
warms the spines of leather-bound scrapbooks
where ink bleeds into yellowed pages.
Grandad’s trunk yawns open:
Inside, a woolen uniform, stiff as frozen fish,
still guards its stripes.
A cracked leather suitcase spills sepia photos—
a bride squinting in the Missouri sun,
her lace gloves chewed by silverfish.
Under the dormer window sits
a hobbyhorse missing an eye,
its rockers having scarred the floorboards.
In the corner, discarded Easter baskets
melt into wicker tumors filled with
fossilized foil-wrapped chocolate eggs.
The beams hum with termite hymns—
tiny jaws dissolving joists
into sacred dust.
But open the window~
catch the updraft of cut grass
from the yard below.
It wrestles with the gloom,
this breath of living things,
and for a moment,
the attic remembers the world.
The night is pregnant and weather gets cheap
dreams of distant fantasies
even by the destitute void of pillows.
Darkness becomes a loving father
caring through oblivion’s wand.
The day weight lifted for the night
as tranquility texts the neighbourhood.
Moonlight in an attractive gown
showcasing on resting beings.
Winter rains on non-melting snow
condense air with nature’s cologne.
Refreshing the lungs with the wonderful smell
of wet fine sands of a new garden
as the night yawns to spread
its last blessing to make any sleep perfect
under the fabric of a tender warm blanket.
Birthdays will come, ...We can't make them go
Some filled with excitement, some simply ho-hum
Others we dread, because they remind us
Of the swiftness of years, that are falling behind us
It marks off the years, and the the day we were born…
Acknowledgement comes in some custom or form
Perhaps we must please, or try to conform ….
to the norms of our peer's celebration.
Perhaps if we're lucky,..a nice dinner to please
a gift, or a chat.... a candle or cake... the singing “the” song….
There's nothing wrong with all that!
But the older we get, no piñata to claim......no pictures to frame
So to recall one “event”…this birthday I spent…
Nice enough, I suppose …but the day decomposed
We rushed to this place, on a workday eve.
Not much time to dine, we'd be home by nine
A restaurant table….just a few of us able
No balloons, no cake, no candle, no flames
But acknowledgement, just the same
Over plates of ravioli…and eggplant parmesan
So nice….. but did I notice a few yawns???
Then one special moment, that won’t be forgotten
My little blonde grandson….who gave me a gift
He reached into his pocket…with a shy little grin
Said, “Here is Darth Vader….He is all that there is"….
And opened his hand, and his eyes so sincere
And gave me a gift to remember for years...
"It’s all that I have, I almost forgot
I hope you will like him..... I like him a lot..
"But he's yours if you like him….It's all that I’ve got."
"Happy Birthday Grandma…."
Happy Birthday To Me !!
______________________________________________________
For "Birthday Party Contest: Sponsor Nayda Ivette Negron
Revised 2/9/16
Vive la différence!
Poets will sonnet and sonnets will sing
As we trudge through winter while yearning for spring
Long ago at a party where Coasters did say
"I could never live in a place so common and gray"
But they didn't, so "couldn't" is something they say
Because their imagination's what's gray
Their vision is dimmed by mountainous boundaries
Belittling the work of the farms and the foundries
Where the salt of the earth in industrious nature
Fashions the birth and the wealth of the nature
Not recognizing all has a place in creation
And difference made wealthy and healthy the nation
If ev'ryone lived in the same clime, time, and place
Boring and snoring would claim ev'ry face
And poets would sleep through the sonnets unsung
And yawns would be what would fill up ev'ry lung