the sky was cold and grey
when
yesterday
you told me where the Secret Penguin lay
in bygone years
they say he was a sight
the avian conundrum
in black and white
operating in ice-cold
frozen stealth
he redistributed the ocean's wealth
some say
he went down in a bullet hail
trying to save a hunted humpback whale
his misty memory
lives down under
he left us with much more than wonder
in the Antarctic wilderness below
his noble three-toed footprint
in the snow.
The sky was cold and grey, when, yesterday,
you told me where the Secret Penguin lay.
In bygone years, they say, he was a sight,
the avian conundrum in black and white.
Operating in ice-cold, frozen stealth,
he redistributed the ocean's wealth.
Some say he went down in a bullet hail,
trying to save a hunted humpback whale.
His misty memory lives down under.
He left us with much more than wonder -
in the Antarctic wilderness below,
his noble, three-toed footprint in the snow.
Administrator incommunicado
Acknowledging nymphomaniacs
Reclassifying philosophical
Ideologically Transcultural
Pronunciation Calligraphers
Communication demilitarized
Grandstanding orchestration
Carpetbagging adjudications
Redistributed improprieties
Abolitionists brinksmanship
Sarcastically realistically
Craftsmanship flabbergasted
Enlightenment librarianship
Democratically
Sometimes I wish that we could
return to the days when we were little.
We use to lie on our backs in the grass,
the four of us; chewing on sour weeds,
watching the clouds change forms from flowers to faces,
until the airplanes disfigured them.
We sent all our dreams up to God,
where He hid them away
from everyone except us.
We were simple then;
when we were little.
Even now, you and I sometimes lie on our backs.
Waiting patiently on God, as our dreams are redistributed.
Wrinkled and worn with age,
we uncrumble them.
Still legible, we smooth them out
and share them with one another.
But, they sound silly now.
Probably because we're aware
that He'd already fulfilled them ...
long ago, back
when we were little.
Inside my head is rather cluttered
Memories of past blur into memories of present
Looking back to see the many hopes and dreams of a child
Dreams shattered by reality only to be redistributed into new things
So many things learned that have become a legacy with no practical use
The joy of finding love to have love lost
Memories of being knocked down and then standing back up
Reaching out…
Sacrifice…
Compromise…
Honor…
Love…
Pondering less on successes and more on mistakes
Feeling love within my heart for the sacrifices so I may have a chance
Embracing forgiveness enabling other things like love, peace, hope, and joy
Having a heavy heart for all of those who lost someone who was close to them
Seeing others go through life without the tender touch of those who were dear to them
Sharing life with my best friend and wife
Having peace within my heart knowing that life is what it is
Edward J Ebbs - September 12, 2015
Written for a contest, INSIDE MY HEAD - for "OLD" poets
The perfect year,
two equal halves.
One with leaves
one without.
Forest thinning out.
Bring indoors
swing sets, pools, smiles, thoughts.
Having enough and not much else is a lot.
The transfer of funds is a loving gratitude for work well done.
Not self-sufficient unless self
is defined as family, community and nation.
The world.
Universe.
Thus,
I settle my haunches like a bear content, snug into coming winter.
House will be warm notwithstanding the Muslim-Judeo-Christian condition
not to mention the Hindu-Buddhist vortex.
Searching space
for an entity
to unite us as humanity.
Carbon-based, earthbound
meeting, understanding and absorbing
the clicking, algorithmic logic
of passionately computing species, insects, machines, bacteria.
A world moves only as fast as you think.
If it moves faster you're not thinking, you're it, dead, chemicals redistributed
in an ever more painless process.
What are my feelings exactly?
Systemic joy.
Lovely the logic
we have invented and applied
identifying, specifying, classifying.
It can keep you busy
counting, praying
while all the leaves are falling.
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If love were my teardrops,
an ocean~they would fill.
If love were my memories,
the earth would stand still.
Have you heard a heart breaking
and the awesome sounds of despair?
~To reach out for something familiar
and know that it won't be there?
If love could taste all the pain
that you have experienced before,
would you search for it again
and repeatedly ask for more?
Chasing those past shadows~
knowing the sadness that will hurl~
I wouldn't have chosen the pain,
but I wouldn't have missed it
for the world!!
It took two days but I drank the oceans dry
Spat out the salt creating deserts beneath a cloudless sky
I ripped a mountain from the earth and deposited it on the moon
Blew down a giant forest with one breath, not a single leaf remained in bloom
Turned the sun down a notch or two and redirected its rays to lessen global warming
Swept clouds to where rain was needed and sunshine to where rain was pouring
Rerouted rivers far and wide so that arid lands might bloom
Capped all menacing volcanoes on the Earth and shut down their noxious plumes
Confiscated the wealth of the greedy and redistributed it to the starving masses
Ripped the guns from the hands of a million sociopaths and kicked their useless asses
Tracked down Greed, Envy, Hate and War and crushed them into dust
Released Love and Compassion from their steel chains, forever eliminating mistrust
If all this be a dream and when I awake I find I'm still merely mortal
I will still be heartened by the fact that "hope still burns eternal"
Mourning-raises and evening-out Set
Exploding and uniting vapors are my everlasting fodder
Orientating the sphere of existence around me
Golden locks beard my youthful face
Stolen I am, but gained, lost, and redistributed throughout the cycle
A vital ingredient for games of production, reproduction, and sustenance am I
A creator for, a destroyer of and a sustainer-of-all, am I
My kisses are randomly discharged into the vastness
Infinite amounts of livelihood is what offers I
With practised ease he scans the page
absorbing all he reads
objectifying everything
assimilating needs.
Redistributed word and line
subliminally home grown
presented as original
reference unknown.
The metal of another forge
he promotes as fire grown
this counterfeiting wordsmith
without anvil of his own.
Displaying mediocre wares
he prostitutes the art
successful in his larceny
oblivious to heart.
For words are words
and lines are lines
the plagiarist can’t see
the life expended searching for
originality.
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