I have an awful memory. It's sad.
Seemingly destroyed by that madman
Who, sixty-one years ago, pulled out
Without looking,and crashed into my car
Sending mine careering towards death.
Ha! I've got news for him, wherever,
I survived!
But you robbed me of some dreams!
Dreams that, like all memories, are passive
And cannot be completely lived again.
But it is the words... sixty-one years !
Who would have thought there'd be so many?
Amongst them, through the gaps pervading,
Are gems: Memories to be grateful for.
The tin box of silver thrupences
I hid beneath a floorboard in 1952!
Did anyone find it? Or did they rain
Down upon heads of demolition men
Like angel's tears at all destruction:
At things that should have aged and died
Naturally, in the most usual and intended way.
Gone tomorrow but here today.
© Allen Ansell 2024
FOUR CUBED
Four words a line,
Four lines a stanza.
Four of these comprise
Ms. Hawley’s next extravaganza.
Three words won’t satisfy;
Five are too numerous.
And, one more condition,
She’d like it humorous.
That’s two verses done
And I’ve barely commenced.
It’s not my nature
To write lines condensed.
But, if she insists,
I’ll follow her law.
Sixty one, sixty two,
Sixty three, sixty four.
I know you are sensitive,
not sentimental,
but it has been four years,
that's one thousand
four hundred and sixty one days,
since enlightened tides kissed
those island shores.
My soul was wrapped in worn ribbons,
mourning my misplaced muse
and you were a whispering rose,
wilting at the slightest touch.
Bleeding 3am vents,
with conflicting vowels and consonants,
the sirens of your ink screamed
for a silent troubadour to
compose cathartic bloodstreams -
but life is not as pretty as petals and poetry.
A mistress to moonlight,
I found you crying at an apathetic moon,
so I cracked open your volcanic cocoon,
to open your eyes to cinnamon
and persimmon horizons -
now you float like an empyrean butterfly.
I hope you soar forever and know
I could have written for you,
as many verses as you have seen stars,
but we cannot cultivate in fields of unfairness,
where only dead blooms now decompose,
as you keep ignoring Cupid's cries.
Despite contradicting crossroads,
my heart is deep rooted
in wayfarer's wisdom,
knowing when there are no more beats -
you will honour me with a
requiem for an artist.
Simple Musings
Bluebells are a symbol of humility, gratitude and constancy
A perfect day is not lackluster, nor lusting for more, but
rather knowing the plenitude in each sentient moment.
—Quote by Poet
An Edenic Rise
it’s perfect degrees
of sixty-one stimulates
a chirrup ‘cross screen
in pjs; my feet are bare
pedicured cerulian
better than Summer
and Winter’s too cold to bear
love perfect degrees
in slight chill of fahrenheit
add cup of Highlander Grogg
an Edenic rise
joyful sighs sans monotone
with cream in the cup
retiree with work to do
bluebells boon in afternoon
Bet she knows she is odd the church crone says.
I am confused “Who?”
The new minister.
I look around, still have no clue where or who she is.
“Lady in blue polka dotted shirt,” the crone hisses.
I finally spot her, sitting behind a potted plant.
“She is the new minister?”
Head nod, the crone’s eyes are more snake-like than I remembered
“She is weird. Look at those shoes!”
The newcomer would have fit in well in any city of the world.
A bit too sophisticated for this town of two thousand and sixty-one in Nebraska.
I walk toward her, determined to give her a warm welcome.
“I think I wore the wrong shoes,” she said.
I smile, liking her immediately.
"One More Monchielle Stanza"
This January day
I took a pleasant walk.
It’s sixty-one degrees.
I’m relishing this time
before the brutal freeze.
This January day
from my front porch I hear
young children play outside.
Jack Frost is coming soon.
His breath we can’t abide.
This January day
I’ll fill my shopping list,
for I won’t venture out
when highs are in the teens
and ice sheathes every route.
This January day
is much like all the rest
for those who have to work.
Ice storms, they can’t avoid;
their duties, they can’t shirk!
Take me back in time so I can remember it all,
When as a great nation we bravely stood tall.
We fought with all our might to gain independence,
And did so with pride and much resilience.
The fighting spirit of Nanny must be kept alive,
And the boldness of our heroes will help us survive.
As we rise up as a great nation,
To reminiscence about the past at sixty-one.
No obstacle will be too great or small,
That as Jamaicans we cannot overcome them all.
Why do these guys quit before seventy?
After achievements Life on Earth empty!
There was to be a Macgregor Laird:
Before sixty-one years to rest laid...
For my avid interest in History,
I could not but alight on his story
With its private message from Greatness
"No, Mystery, no Magic: Eagerness!"
What had he shrewdly done: John Beecroft?
In their Britain left behind a voice soft
To in far-off lands hold her goals aloft
While him Portugal, Spain and, sure, France scoffed;
In West Africa's Fernando Po
Seeing that The Non British did lines toe:
In Nigeria's captured Bight of Benin
Ensuring that his men got their Quinine;
I reckon in the close Bight of Biafra
Giving out British bags not of raffia!
I could have for John Beecroft my hat doffed,
Just that when I last tried a patriot coughed.
"From deep within my heart
I always catch the scent
of my Beloved. How can I
help but follow that fragrance?" By Rumi
https://spiritualgal.files.wordpress.com/2017/09/img_9903.png?w=293
AFTER LIFE
Her scent! Her scent! The best of life!
I watch her move - the smile, the curves.
Sixty-one years she’d been my wife.
The light projects - my mind observes.
Perfume, present, in our sweet home.
Doesn’t rise, though coaxed, from purple urn.
T’her closet clings, like honeycomb,
The pleasant scent of clothes well worn.
If I could, but, follow the trail
And find her form in great beyond,
Upon her shoulder, lay, inhale,
My darling, court, renew our bond.
Her scent! Her scent! The best of life!
Her pulse, unique, as is my grief.
Sixty-one years she’d been my wife.
And when you’ve loved as I…so brief.
7/13/2022
Rhyme Rumi Quote
Sponsor: Sotto Poet
Rhymezone and howmanysyllables.com
8 syllables per line
109 words
She was our “it” girl
Most of us wanted to be her or with her
We were amazed and intimidated and in love with her
Not only the boys but the girls also
We were not allowed to be men or women yet
Because this was nineteen sixty-one
No one of the same sex mentioned being in love with her either
Because this was nineteen sixty-one
That day we met
‘twas summer ‘63
at the local hop
you sidled up to me
You took my hand
we danced
my heart
my soul
were way up high
almost touched the sky
You walked me
to my bus stop
Bid me a fond farewell
We were to meet
same day
same place
same time
a week from now
That truly was the longest week
Oh how I longed
for you to meet
to sing
to dance
to talk romance
The day arrived
I had survived
I saw you standing there
I knew
for sure
never looked for more
We were the perfect pair
That boy in ‘63
He stole my heart
away from me
And sixty one years on
a piece
of my heart
was now gone
When you left
oh how I cried
bereft
the day you died
Looking back over
my life with you
What more could I desire
My darling dear
true love of my life
For when you chose me for your wife
my husband
my lover
there was no other
I am
I always will be…
~~~~
Your ever loving wife
Written 11th April 2022
Contest A BRIAN STRAND PREMIER CHOICE
Sponsor Brian Strand
2nd PLACE
All the practice in the world won’t do it;
You have to get messy, you have to get naked.
Submission
By Beverly Stock
I called the editor knowing
That my temper would be showing
And said the following to him:
“I sent a poem here, sir”
(I said growing fiercer,)
“And the subject which
I’d chosen, Sir, was Spring.”
“ I just scanned your paper,
By sunlight, torch and taper,
Of my poem, I do not see a thing”
He spoke, I’m sure it was a fib,
Said he, smug and very glib,
“Of the sixty-one submitted, we printed one.”
“And we’ve decided they should be divided
Among the years then reunited
With a new one each succeeding Spring.”
“Your submission, I’m pleased to mention-”
Will receive our best attention
In our Spring Edition - 2081.”
The undersides of school chairs
all gooey with gum
We thought it such fun
back in sixty-one
In sixty-two we tore fruit loops
from the backs of girls' shirts
The innocent way
we first learned to flirt
In sixty-three we all wore
skin-tight 'H.I.S.' pants
That ripped near your bulges
when you started to dance
Memories glorious
like your first cigarette
Or a long drawn-out kiss
with that gorgeous brunette
Can I ask you dear Lord, only if you have the time?
Our world leaders need some help, they are in quite a bind
Could you throw down a blessing in hopes they will see?
Please help them look in their hearts and guide the powers that be
In sixty-one days, election time will be here
Could you help guide our voters with a message that’s clear?
Can you comfort the dying from age and disease?
I give you my life, to do with what you please
I also pray for the poet, may your holy spirit fill their soul
Give them beautiful lines so they can help to console
Provide strength for the weak in their hour of need
Thank you for your love and your life-giving seed
I have just one more, if it’s not too much to ask
Could you help Robert Lindley, if you’re up for the task?
He has a weak heart and his wife is quite ill
Maybe you could heal them both, they have a child at home still
September 3, 2020
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