Cinnamon and clover lingers on my breath,
a reminder of power that lies dormant.
Building …
hesitating…
yet still being fed.
The wrangler of such petulant magick
understands that spells have wings to fly.
Building…
levitating…
taking to the air.
Respect the ability to maintain control
letting it all go and pulling it back in again.
Building…
decompressing…
breathing.
That is the conjuring.
My grandmother knew
the exact moment I was born.
She was sitting in the passenger seat
of my grandfather’s navy blue Jeep Wrangler.
Speeding down the New Jersey turnpike,
the windows trembled against rushing air.
She closed her eyes and said,
“I just heard my baby granddaughter cry.”
Every time she tells this story,
I imagine my first guttural wail
transcending miles of houses,
trees, and pavement.
I think what a crude force even then
was my unrelenting fear,
its velocity,
its volume,
its stamina.
In tight and busy parking lots
You can easily get perturbed
Should I back out; take the long way,
Or should I just jump the curb?
Jeeportunity!
The well-worn road around the butte
Will take ten minutes more
But a dusty two-track byway
Will save us some time -- I'm sure!
Jeeportunity!
This time the parking lot is full
‘cept a small space next to a hill
“No worries!” mumbling to no one,
“I’ll just drive it up there in Four-wheel.
Jeeportunity!
It”s time to buy a set of wheels,
Your spouse wants the blue mini-van.
There, on the end, what’s that you see?
A Rubi Wrangler! Yup, I’m a fan!
Jeeportunity!
Some cold day in my future life
I will climb the stairway to heaven,
In a golden Jeep with a mega lift
And the tires will be Thirty Sevens!
Jeeportunities!
is that a jackaroo or a jillaroo?
I am annoyed, preferring to be called ringer.
have spent the day with a green one.
decide to escape, take a walk by the sea.
broncoing has worn me out.
1080 irritates me.
I finally revitalize, feeling replenished.
thanks to the glorious sky.
Rudolph bailed, said “Florida’s call’n me” Nick
But fleet on his feet, ol Santa’s too quick
Once again, he’s gone rope’n
A replacement he’s hop’en
By Christmas, Rudy’s heart’ll be homesick
If I had a daughter,
I would be the kind of father
that owns a muscle car.
I would never be seen
without my Wrangler jeans.
If I had a little girl
I would carry her around
on my shoulders.
People would say:
Hi father, who has a daughter.
Then a small voice by my right ear would reply:
'That’s my daddy!'
Every day
I would change her socks.
I would search the world
for white or pink cotton socks,
socks with flowers on them,
some with lacy frills.
If I had a daughter,
she would be a lot better
than your daughter,
but she would never say so.
We would drive to the Wrangler store,
then to the sock shop.
The ladies who sell cotton socks
would admire my jeans.
My little daughter would say:
'O daddy,
Just look at these pretty cotton socks,
can I have them?'
Then I would say:
'Sure baby girl,
anything for you'.
Some might say there’s no truth to this tale
The night I had a visitor from beyond the pall.
When my mother passed away I was full of anger
I became as defiant as a rodeo bull-wrangler
I shook my fist in the face of this so-called God
Who put my mother beneath the cold sod.
Angry a mother would be taken from her kids
Leaving them with a father down on the skids.
As the days slipped by, I became more desperate
Until one night I was visited by my mother’s spirit.
She was dressed in a white shimmering gown
And in her hair was a gold tiara, a sparkling crown.
She said she would not come back, if she could,
For where she was, everything was very good,
She wanted me to know God didn’t take her away
It was cancer that did. He received her that day.
And she was happier there than ever since birth
She wanted me to join her when I leave this earth.
That divine intervention was a release from my strife,
It changed my way of thinking for the rest of my life.
written December 16, 2021
especially for "Divine Intervention" Poetry Contest
sponsored by Chantelle Anne Cooke
Embarrassed, humiliated, disgraced
By the lack of things
I came from
Humble, my family was humble
With meager possessions
No luxuries or waste
No suffocating expense
No extravagance
I longed for brand names
Like Levi’s and Wrangler
Nike and eventually
Under armor
I can’t be sure
But now that I have the
Indulgences, the extras
Those things I wanted
So ridiculously
I find that I’m more ashamed
Of the lavishness
I feel like I’ve squandered
Where I should have
Saved
Amenity judged harmless
Can destroy
The one
Who
Trusts
In
Riches
Treat yourself
To simplicity
It’s the simple things
That bring wealth
To the senses
Of one who listens
To the appeals
Of humility
It's Just Pants
Levi
~0~
blue denim jeans
made tough to last longer
till high price demand cheaper brand
~0~
Wrangler
2020 December 13
*1st Place*
Trademark~~Quintain
~~Sara Kendrick
The trousers he's wearing are Wrangler -
they're great for his job as an angler
(although on a trip
he busted his zip
and showed all those present his dangler).
written 6th December for Sara's Trademark contest
Its' truth,
and it's in the dark,
but with the spark we can wall off like a plaster of farce,
any indecent start,
with incandescent sprawl to remark.
As if it were all the placated thing that does the hard lard-
I never needed but grew to embark!
Outcasts spell me neededly' as I see whats seething-rot with grease on things.
I'm pleading eagerly,
for the right stage for the print of my priest-
but wonder allowed if i'll have to keep repeating and easily wondering about the joggy' facts,
the eccentricity of my real badge-
the maps toggling themselves to distance innumerably far from my wrangler in park,
and the truth that's so dark.
With the cocking of his gun
I squeezed my eye lids all so narrow
And considered how big a gun can look
When looking down its barrel
But instead of being shot
The Doc ordered me once more
To hop down in the shallow grave
And start digging up the ore
He threw me down a pick axe
And as I grab it with my hands
Saying "Don't get no ideas
Or I'll shoot you where you stand"
So I plunged it in the rock
And as the pieces fell away
I saw that it was gold
And the Doc's plan plain as day
He would seem to rescue strangers
From the crowd, back in the town
And take them here to mine for him
Then shoot the wrangler down
With a coffin filled with ore
Then back to town he'd make his way
"He let the fella go"
At least that is what he'd say
This way Doc could keep the gold
And the secret of his find
And as for missing strangers
no one payed any mind
To be continued in Vol 6 Page 9 soon
When Darkest Of Blues Will Not Stop Pounding
Standing atop this high cliff, clouds floating on by
Watching last sunset, red-tint paint splashing blue sky
Now finding life, has stooped to beat me up again
Despite my deep courage, embraced through thick and thin
No honor felt in this lost state I am at
Broken wrangler with no horse, no damn cowboy hat
Just a dying soul, trying to live to hold on
Now that the beauty of life's colors have all gone
Weeping into winds once found to be clear and fair
Missing that love, only mother and child can share
Glancing down, life and earth seems so damn far below
So many exits, yet I have nowhere to go
Standing atop this high cliff, clouds floating on by
Watching last sunset, red-tint paint splashing blue sky
Robert J. Lindley, 2-17-2017
Note; One day gleaming sun does so shine. Next day it hides and laughs in wicked glee.
There is now a huge hole in me. I wish to drown, in the next storm in this dark, raging sea.
Poppycock pulls playfully on a time corrosive steel beam. But a single wine of wait is neither a window nor a wrangler. To attempt to chain a mushy pea is akin to leaping several times over a mustard pot. Voluminous otters greeting pies and a very nice vertically placed video has a nice big sleep. But sleep is neither sloppy nor stressed streams but streaming can be stemming and stemming is neither stinky nor swanky. So all hail the elephant vision. Playing on a motorbike. Big packed trunk. Rather reach ravishing racing rival recalls. Then take a small potato hollow out and make a little boat. Sea circus then in an operatic curve. Swish in a dish. Oh ha then. Hahaha real rhombi's riot. Xxxxx Tripolitania z z x z
Asunder have all my classical forms and themes been torn,
Who tore them?
Who destroyed them to bring the poem down to the earth?
Yes, I did.
It is I who is now cold like a fully unthawed polar ocean,
No longer a wrathful wrangler,
No longer bold.
The neatly shaped rhyme and rhythm of verse is now
Like a frail vase, clasped by a frailer fist,
Falls only to get smashed on the floor
To sharp smithereens.
When undaunted I trotted upon them,
Found my feet hued with
Beautiful stains of love.
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