Clearest, sunniest
Of springly fresh views
For what enhances its glamour
Pales, a mist, before.
As thickly, we, this eve
Wrapped in disappear
And step by step, make more lost
As Love's eyed hold can
Lamped and bridged Parisian
That strode! More and more!
I wandered lonely and lost in a crowd
My mind wrapped in thoughts so keen to expound
The images to which my heart had bowed
Ignoring the rough noises all around
Struggling was I to find just the right word
To paint the picture I had fixed in mind
It all seemed so far fetched and absurd
Why was my harsh muse being so unkind?
I strode on in my stroll, though steeped in pain
Nothing of poetic form ever came
My struggle looked like being all in vain
Was this to be my sad moment of shame?
Then that damn block dissolved to set me free
Who was not startled by my shout of glee?
Eyes wove robes from shared admiration.
Each gaze embroidered yet more shining threads.
Wonder strode down the fashion's catwalk,
Perfectly poised, utterly debonair.
Beauty fashioned the glittering robes.
Pain stitched up the sleeve of seams.
Pleasure pressed the starched collars flat.
Pride applauded the flawless perfect fit.
Then, one by one, every eye looked away.
The robes dissolved as gazes fell away.
The couturier dethroned, stood naked and alone.
Nothing had ever clothed his candle light.
I walked around our farm’s “block” one day,
Each side of which is a country mile.
Noticing details along my way;
Sights, sounds, smells, and feelings made me smile.
Cows in a pasture gently grazing;
Some glanced at me but not with alarm.
Now horses who at me were gazing;
Sensing, I felt, I meant them no harm.
I strode past a wood, hiding a deer;
Watched two squirrels clatter up a tree;
Crossed a bridge above water so clear;
Passed some hives but not one buzzing bee.
I smelled freshly cut hay in the field;
Farmer’s crops help him pay his lender.
Pondering the joys my walk did yield;
Loving this simple country splendor.
Five decades ago, one dusk after field duty
I stood at Moirang Lamkhai by the roadside
waiting for the passenger bus.
No bus came the last one might had gone I feared.
Then I spied an old man, dhoty hitched to knees,
shirt of cotton coarse sleeves long.
Bare foot he strode in the hush of the twilight.
I hailed, " Uncle has the last bus gone ? "
" Yes, it has gone, no more tonight." he replied,
" Homeward bound ? Don't worry stay at my house tonight."
No hotel in the bazaar but a pure hospitality.
We walked the road, his voice was gentle.
" See how the land developed - going on the road
feels like going on my home's floor (earthen)."
Then Gopaljee Sharma,Asstt Registrar C.S.
rolled in by office jeep post duty.
He called me aboard : I thanked the kind elder,
bade farewell, returned to my residence.
Now Moirang Bazar boasts hotels.
But such a kind hospitable old man,
which was the characteristics of people in the old days,
is not seen again.
Bare foot walking on a primeval beach
Before people, (it was just 3 o’clock,)
Balance hunched with longer stride
My feet made indentations in the sand.
With each rising step, my prints
Filled with toe-sized ponds and heel-sized lakes,
A tidal microcosm of a pulsing beach.
Life before people after all.
Far away, I saw a scrap of white
Propped against escarpment rock.
Assessed as some precious speck,
As so rare a thing so often is.
Already grains of sand had worked
Between my sandals and my soles.
Curious, I strode towards it,
To more closely see.
A sign of white posted my accidental crime:
Turtle Nest
Do Not Disturb
As easily saying, “Forgo knowing to let things be.”
The moon cast shadows down the hill
The stars shuddered the night was still
Even the breeze cared make no sound
The still lake mirrored heavens bound
She walked mimicking the moonlight
In moonbeams strode past my mazed sight
Beauty vexing the ageless stars
Healing a heart laid rough with scars
But in her passing chances waste
Dumbstruck and stilled; I made no haste
To make approach, or call out to
Her light dimmed, her moonbeams withdrew
The hillside awoke with wonder
In the distance cracks of thunder
The trees spake in rustles the brakes
The lake awoke in rolling wakes
Not only was my bruised heart healed
Her passing woke the sleeping field
Though I saw, it was all in vein
My lips would not part, nor words feign
All the hillside seemed suffer strange
What sorcery has such a range
What heavenly beauty we’ve seen
Could this be the goddess Selene?
No other glean could I thus make
No wiser part of me could shake
The deep found knowing of this truth
My heart and eyes as in their youth
The day may come, but hold the night
Within me glows the breathless sight
As all the hillside bore with me
Captivated by her beauty
I walked around our farm’s “block” one day,
Each side of which is a country mile.
Noticing details along my way;
Sights, sounds, smells, and feelings made me smile.
Cows in a pasture gently grazing;
Some glanced at me but not with alarm.
Now horses who at me were gazing;
Sensing, I felt, I meant them no harm.
I strode past a wood, hiding a deer;
Watched two squirrels clatter up a tree;
Crossed a bridge above water so clear;
Passed some hives but not one buzzing bee.
I smelled freshly cut hay in the field;
Farmer’s crops help him pay his lender.
Pondering the joys my walk did yield;
Loving this simple country splendor.
My brother wrote a story
Based on childhood, when we went
To the Catskills for the summer;
Those were joyous times we spent.
In his telling, though, he mentioned
“Night patrol,” which caught me short.
I’d forgotten all about it,
Something memory did thwart.
On the weekends, when the fathers
(Who remained at home for work)
Traveled up to see their families,
What awaited was a perk.
For at night, in the casino,
(Like a clubhouse party space)
There was music, booze and dancing;
Lots of fun was taking place.
All the children, unattended,
Stayed inside the bungalows
While some older teens on “night patrol”
Strode up and down the rows.
Everything was walking distance,
So if something was amiss,
Like a crying baby or a toddler
Needing mommy’s kiss
Night patrol came to the rescue,
Someone fetching dad or mom,
While another night patroller
Stayed and kept the kiddies calm.
Those were different times, for sure;
Doors were unlocked and not a soul
Ever worried ‘bout a problem,
Knowing there was night patrol.
A fellow strode right up to me
tightened his belt and set his jaw
proclaimed his fame gesticulatedly
Taken aback, I mentioned that fame is fleeting
while those who toil in obscurity
~ do so until eternity
Contest Title: Long Shadows Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
Deadline: Wednesday, October 29, 2025
Poem Title: The Surveyor of Dusk
Late Texas summer, wet heat and mosquitos,
running each evening, preparing for boot.
Past the few houses in my small country town,
past the people, past the sound,
running my past into the graveled ground.
The sun was low, a blood-red fruit in the sky,
casting my lunging shadow before me
on the dusty gravel finger of road.
I and my companion shadow strode
to Richland Creek where I would rest my load.
Each day I ran through the silent shadows,
alone and relishing my strength and youth,
pitting myself against my own best time,
enjoying the heat, sweat, and even the grime
of the dusty shadowed gravel road rime.
My shadow was joined in silent watch
one evening as I pushed my youthful endurance
by a heart-faced barn owl with glowing eyes
who brought a stutter to my steps
and a shock to my eyes.
Silently staring with shadow of his own,
his golden eyes still keep me company
in dreams and shadow memory
reminding me of a youth so temporary.
Two kitty cats, strode up an autumnal. red-leaved covered hill.
The day being cast in loveliness, they went to visit the old mill.
By then it was noon, so they fried delicious fish on a picnic grill.
Then, sauntered home, to snore like royalty, upon a heavenly, comfy, velvetty-covered, window sill!
9/18/2025
The L. T. was green,
And equally mean,
Full of swagger and bluster,
And all the authority he could muster.
Bold in command,
This brash little man,
Who strode all around
Like he owned the damn ground--
Barking orders and spittle,
Never regarding how little
Regard in which he was held.
It was the midnight shift,
And L. T. in a tiff,
Cause his coffee had run out.
The L. T. with a shout,
Demanded a fresh pot be made--
No matter if the deployment was delayed.
In stepped the Sergeant broad and tall,
Striding to the Lieutenant who suddenly seemed small.
“The troops have a duty to move this line.
Your coffee can wait--this ain’t the time.
“And never raise your voice to one of mine.”
The Sergeant stared a moment then turned on a dime,
And made himself a cup of joe taking his sweet ass time
The Belt Wearer...strode into the room
The heartbeat of Young Hearts...foresaw doom
A crack of the whip...and backs stripped bare
The smell of burnt leather...hung in the air
Bedtime now...after a late night smack
Pain called out for help...but no one called back
The more storms would rage...the more rain would fall
Call it a typical day...down Teardrop Hall
Sixteen sailors strode into a pub,
Then a group of them left to get some grub.
Those who remained got into a fight,
With some locals who drank there every night.
Although the sailors did outnumber
The locals (who were also dumber),
Two sailors shy of a ratio of two-to-one,
The seafarers lost and the locals had won.
But then exactly half who had left for food,
Returned to the pub in a foul mood.
One local had left, a man named Tor,
Until the ratio was the reverse of what it was before,
Even though the beaten sailors couldn't fight,
The fresh sailors versus the locals, all right!
Don't ask me how it went,
For I will forever remain silent.
But could you determine how many sailors
Could be considered failures,
Because they went to get grub
And didn't return to the pub
Never swinging a punch nor taking a fall,
Against the locals at all?
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