"cecil" poems
Sitting on my bed
Gazing out at the view
Laptop in lap
I wonder
Being of mixed race
The truth of my origins
The blood coursing through my veins
Goffle they would say
But iv always believed a man's skin colour doesn't define who he is
Kwabulawayo
A place where he is being killed
Home of the Ndebele
My hometown
Built on the ruins of a Royal town
uMzilikazi ,Leander Starr Jameson ,Lobengula ,Cecil john rhodes
Men of courage
Black and white
Fought struggles
Years before my birth
Mater Dei Hospital
My journeys beginning
My grandfathers end.
Joy and pain
My hearts memories
From Primary
Whitestone
Green fields
Where i spent my childhood
Life's little joys
Clay-yaki
In the rain
Barefoot.
Speargrass
How it stung
Running through the grass
Taller than i was
Forts
Built with shoelaces
Marbles
Fights in the sand
Afternoons spent picking mullberyys
The girls dormitory
Offbounds.
Matrons
Got me the cain
Thursday Nights
Prefects Priveleges
Sports
Cross country
The houses of Tuli, Shangani, Shashe
lifelong friends made
A place frozen in memory
Home of the best years of my life
Tears streaming down
Every Sunday evening
The way back
A boarders sentiment
Lasting 5min till reunited with friends
Tuck shared
Eskimo Hut
The Green Mamba Or Pink Panther
The food hall
Quiet
Till dessert came
Mr Haworth
Everyday
"The queen would be disgusted if she saw u eating"
The tide of his time
Wandering around my childhood
I bumped unintentionally into
Maturity
Starless nights
First kisses
A little bit older i was
Aug 21, 2010
Aug 21, 2010 at 8:34 AM UTC
Memaw & Pepaw ..Mason Dixon Saturday night,
Just sippin' muscadine wine by the Tennessee moonlight
Rockin' chairs...Zenith Black and White
Roy, Buck, Minnie Pearl a Hee Haw delight.
Crickets a chirpin' and a Frogs a croakin'
Toe tapin' rhythm's got em all in motion.
Corn fields swaying like a metronome
Watching those two dance to cotton eye Joe!
Sunday mornings best at the Church of Christ,
Me, I'm Thinkin' bout Memaws country gravy, my fav-o-rite!
Fried Chicken, taters, eggs sunny side right,
These are the memories I like to recite.
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 12:19 PM UTC
Home is where the heart is but the heart is a broken place.
I hate
how loud I must barely scream so that people can see my face:
I am dark
and this is a time of shadows.
Sometimes what worries me most about us
is not that we are forced to carry guns and **** our own mothers
is not that we are pulled from our classrooms back into our homesteads
is not that some of our leaders feast while we become skinny UNICEF models
is not that if only one molecule of my DNA was different I could have lived without ever knowing how to read even a single word
is not even that the smallest of things can wipe out entire villages in an instant-
mosquitoes, viruses, locusts; slave ships.
Sometimes what worries me most is that
my headphones carry more sounds of strange places
than my heart will ever know- that not even my brothers and sisters
sold off to those strange places ever knew, as their children are hung off
the trees of Jim Crow and we call them strange fruit, and that
maybe our first president didn't marry a white lady; the white lady might have married him.
Sometimes what worries me most is that for just over eighteen years
of seeing thinking feeling breathing being I couldn't
have ever told you what Africa meant to me past the occasional 'dumela'
to my mother's mother but never, never did I know or now know or will know my mother's mother's mother's mother's mother
because
she can't fit inside the cellular America that I hold in my palm.
And this is why they call us lost.
Because home is where the heart is but the heart is a broken place.
One time, my five year old cousin said matter-of-factly
that black is ugly. In my Primary School days
everyone said I should stay out of the sun lest I get darker.
But
I'm here to tell you that I don't even bother wearing a sun-hat anymore.
I'm here to tell you that I don't cut my hair because to do so would feel like oppression.
I'm here to tell you how vivid and lovely and blessed I do feel to have been born in broken-heart home because at least it has soul.
I'm here to tell you that, yes, I do remember
that time when the whole world knew what to do about ****** and Bin Laden but never could get round to talking about Cecil John Rhodes.
I'm here to tell you that
Today, that conversation starts with a toppled statue.
Today, that conversation starts with my voice.
Today, this conversation starts with a poem which proclaims-
child I am, child I am, child I am, child I am, child I am-
that this is my day. This is my day.
The Day of the African Child.
Jun 16, 2015
Jun 16, 2015 at 1:38 PM UTC
AN ATTACK ON BARBERCRAFT
[Dedicated to George Cecil Jones]
At last an end of all I hoped and feared!
Muttered the hermit through his elfin beard.
Then what art thou? the evil whisper whirred.
I doubt me soerly if the hermit heard.
To all God's questions never a word he said,
But simply shook his venerable head.
God sent all plagues; he laughed and heeded not,
Till people certified him insane.
But somehow all his fellow-luntaics
Began to imitate his silly ticks.
And stranger still, their prospects so enlarged
That one by one the patients were discharged.
God asked him by what right he interfered;
He only laughed and into his elfin beard.
When God revealed Himself to mortal prayer
He gave a fatal opening to Voltaire.
Our Hermi had dispensed with Sinai's thunder,
But on the other hand he made no blunder;
He knew ( no doubt) that any axiom
Would furnish bricks to build some Donkeydom.
But!-all who urged that hermit to confess
Caught the infection of his happiness.
I would it were my fate to dree his weird;
I think that I will grow an elfin beard.
2.3k
plead your case. the silence that follows will deafen your prayers... it will eat your rain.
tread where smoke has layed eggs in a nest of flames.
use your thoughts nimbly, and thereby, climb the ladder madly
humbly gone by love, my love.
humbly gone
by love.
these are not the words in my mouth. they are god's frogs. a soft plague of cecil b. demille with ampibians and barbedwire. these are not the fickle neptunes in dischord. you are not the last unicorn. only the basilisk in my zodiac. my marvelous queen.
these are not the feathers of a proud crane. but a wrecking ball reassembling a dandelion with a leather whip and a chair. they tumble from my limbic intimacy with your private lies. i bring genuine venom to cure blindness; but i leave an antidote under my tongue should your kisses beg to be a fool.
i won't say what this is.
i have bruises where your name left a dent in my kevlar.
Oct 9, 2012
Oct 9, 2012 at 8:47 AM UTC
Has not enough been said
About Cecil, the Lion?
This has brought me to tears.
For those who don't know
Cecil lived in a Wild Life park
In Zimbabwe.
There was no hunting allowed
So, some sick *******
Who is a big game hunter
Dragged a antelope carcass
So that Cecil would
Come out of the park.
He, then, shot Cecil
With an arrow
And Cecil was tortured
Over forty hours.
Cecil was tracked down,
He was shot with a gun,
He was decapitated,
He was skinned.
How is it that
What is so magnificent
As a Lion
Is seen as nothing
But a head and skin
To decorate your living room?
I've been to Kenya
And Tanzania.
They are glorious creatures
In the wild.
Why not just take a photo?
Or just enjoy their magnificence
And then leave
With your enhanced soul?
They say psychopaths
Practice on animals first
This sick pathology
Has to end, not only for
Animals but humans well.
This man had a felony conviction
For baiting black bears.
He belongs in prison
Although many think
He should be decapitated
As well.
People are angry.
And Cecil's Cubs?
I used to watch a show
Called:
"Big Cat Diaries"
And their fate is sealed
As well.
Lions practice infanticide
And when a new male
Comes to Cecil's pride
He will **** all of Cecil's offspring
To make their mothers
Go into estrus
So they can breed.
One cub has been killed
And not much hope for
The other eight.
Our neighbors bait
Black bears, **** them,
Skin them, stuff them
And put them in their house.
They seem to just enjoy
Killing things for no reason
They find great joy
In killing things.
They seem like
Nice enough people
But when you have
So little respect for Life
Can't it haunt
Your human ties?
I honestly feel
Like someone
Has shot my dog.
And it makes me weep,
Though the story
Is now old.
This man should
Go to prison,
And in Zimbabwe.
Send the world
A huge message
That we are not Neanderthals
We don't have to
To **** things
Out of sheer joy.
We should not reduce
Living things to
Heads and hides.
Sep 8, 2015
Sep 8, 2015 at 2:04 PM UTC
On a particularly dry morning
I Google “creative writing prompts.”
“What are you eating for breakfast?”
“Have you ever dreamt
of being blasted off to outer space?”
“Have you ever encountered
a speed ******
in a Walmart parking lot?”
“Imagine you are a ghost
roaming the hallways
of the Cecil Hotel.”
“Have you ever looked at yourself
fully naked in the mirror
after a night of ugly debauchery?”
Never mind -
I suppose another love poem
wouldn’t hurt.
Feb 14, 2021
Feb 14, 2021 at 11:24 AM UTC
Eleven dead; six injured.
How does a person try to explain
The enormity of such a crime--
The inexplicable loss, the pain?
All were shot at a place of worship--
At a synagogue in Pittsburgh, P-A,
On what began as a peaceful morning
On a late October Sabbath day.
Early that morning no one could have
Imagined the horror the day would bring,
Even though we live in a time
When hatred seems to be in full swing.
It takes only ONE hater
To change the course of many lives
In a country where underneath
The peaceful appearance, violence thrives.
The president says that armed guards
Are what we need and not tougher laws.
He bows before the gun lobby,
Addressing the symptoms, but not the cause.
Helping refugees get settled:
For that the synagogue is known.
That was an issue that irked the killer,
Who was from here. Yes, homegrown!
Do we ignore red flag warnings
And turn our heads when someone spews
Hatred of groups such as Muslims,
Asylum seekers, gays, or Jews?
Do we ignore the poisonous words
That constantly drip down from the top?
At what point do the majority
Of people say: This must stop!
Give praise to those who strive for positive
Change with every heartfelt endeavor.
And hold in your heart the many people
Whose lives have now been changed forever.
_____________________
May the victims' lives inspire us all by showing us the power of love,
and may they rest in peace.
Joyce Fienberg
Richard Gottfried
Rose Mallinger
Jerry Rabinowitz
Cecil Rosenthal
David Rosenthal
Bernice Simon
Sylvan Simon
Daniel Stein
Melvin Wax
Irving Younger
And may thoughts of love and healing embrace the injured.
-by Bob B (10-28-18)
Oct 28, 2018
Oct 28, 2018 at 3:45 PM UTC
What is the flower that blooms each year
In flowerless days,
Making a little blaze
On the bleak earth, giving my heart some cheer?
Harsh the sky and hard the ground
When the Christmas rose is found.
Look! Its white star, low on earth,
Rays a vision of rebirth.
Who is the child that's born each year -
His bedding, straw:
His grace, enough to thaw
My wintering life, and melt a world's despair?
Harsh the sky and hard the earth
When the Christmas child comes forth.
Look! Around a stable throne
Beasts and wise men are at one.
What men are we that, year on year,
We Herod-wise
In our cold wits devise
A death of innocents, a rule of fear?
Hushed your earth, full-starred your sky
For a new nativity:
Be born in us, relieve our plight,
Christmas child, you rose of light!
by Cecil Day-Lewis, from " A Poet for Every Day of The Year"
Dec 24, 2023
Dec 24, 2023 at 6:38 AM UTC
The poem formerly known as 'First taste of bitter' has been rewritten to reflect the lovely people who inhabit this etheral poetic wonderland that is home to many and a refuge to many - inspired by HP's own Elsa
- thank you Elsa :))
My first taste of HP
I was welcomed right away
Day one I had three friends
Peter Hamilton, Cecil and Ana
Is where my HP journey began
From another site I'd arrived
Not seeking fortunes or fame
Just a place to share poems
With people who feel the same
I've always been so welcome here
~ always made to feel at home
Thats down to the friendly poets
Who you all are, you know.
So many, many friendly souls
My, how that list has grown
Thank you HP - I glad I came...
I no longer feel alone
Special thank also to - Poetessa Diabolica, Niamh, Coleen, Shanna, Wolf, Brandon, Evie, ridicule, Beryl Dov, Donna and Sleeping Bag. Much love to everyone who knows me. X
Jul 28, 2015
Jul 28, 2015 at 9:40 AM UTC
Now our Yesteryear
You can’t put your finger on it but a shift has occurred neighborhoods are different
A few clues lay in the losses delivery to the home what delivery thats just it
Doctor’s house calls milk delivery neighborhood grocer even the mail is indifferent
Anyone want to get close and peek in a nylon mail bag oh but those great leather ones
Milk delivery I don’t care if I whistle smile or sing carrying a bottle of store bought milk
Where is the feeling Phil’s dad use to float or blast out of the door and sweet clinking bottles
Sure you can drop plastic no breakage just an idiot plop who cares we all might as well drink silk
They called it progress change they forgot one more sad word that is so fitting empty
East end grocer barrel full of kites rolls of string or Cecil doing long addition on a paper sack
What about the Quonset hut on west third with a tree that’s wonder fingers touch to assure if real
Ever feel comfort in a giant store feel as you know any one if only there was a button to take us back
Oh to big of a hurry for all that let one materialize see the stampede and kindness would flourish again
We have more they never bothered to explain that with so much misery is part of the package
Front porch social gatherings it’s just what you race a cross in this quantum age
Do you remember those long summer days somehow it would draw from us the hidden sage
All can refuse with effort we can stop this insanity with more heart we can turn back the page
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 11:18 PM UTC
Brandon Bless you brother for your Holy Spirit filled poems.
Bless you Elsa , for your heart and God is using your poems.
Bless you Just Melz, Marion,Nicole,Dark and beautiful too.
Wolf Spirit,DC Raw,Ignatinus, David, Timothy, Joshua..
Joe Kevin, Gary L, Traveler, Mike Hauser, Anto MacRuaridh.
Soulsurvivoe, weeping willow,Hilda.Emma, MargotDylan.
I want to name each and everyone of you that I follow/
Beth St Claire, Nicole, Elizabeth Squire,Mark Cleavenger.
Forgotten Heart, Haley Madison, Eudora, Ann M Johnson.n
Vanessa Gatley, Beryl Dov, Mercie B, Paul Butters, Emma.
Nateive Son,Dopperganger, Cecil Miller,My cup overrunth.
Sweetpea, Frank Ruland, olestory teller, Ridicule, Tivonna.
Carolin, Anu, Nicole Dawn. plus so many more inspires me.
Please forgive me if you are not on here I love you all.
Everyone of you inspires me , I see your courage and your love.
May Christ always bless you all abundantly with his blessings.
I see the courage in all of you whom have my life here on HP.
Jul 26, 2015
Jul 26, 2015 at 11:14 PM UTC
By: David W. Clare
Hollywood town has seen all kind of characters from infamous to bums!
The hippest of all, exclusive dive bar that's been there forever; will outlast us all...
Not your typical cowboy-trough or rag-joint hole-in-the-wall...
No dancing allowed as silent drifters, hipsters and ****** **** on olives then ask for more...
Dress-code strictly enforced; some meet there to get married, while others get divorced...
You'll be sure to meet up with Humphrey Bogart and Cecil B. Demille, young **** chicks and a fat-director over the hill...
Be sure and tell the bartender you'll be back, he will surely remember your tie, coat and hat...
Welcome to the Frolic Room...
(C) In perpetuity all rights reserved
(P) FilmNoirWorks
Dec 24, 2016
Dec 24, 2016 at 6:23 PM UTC
olney transportation center.
i put my bag down in the plastic seat next to me and allow the cool musty subway air envelope my senses. the lights are too fluorescent, **** they’re bright. my chest fills with pressure, the cap at my throat holding on desperately to stay put, stay tight. don’t scream. my breath is getting harder now. why do they even hang out with that person? it doesn’t make sense to me. my music gets louder in my ears, smooth bossa nova pounding brain waves. focus on the lyrics. they make me too angry. my lungs are struggling to hang onto the air, it’s coming in and out of my nostrils too fast. my throat is getting too dry, but my water bottle is too heavy. i don’t want to pick it up, i want to keep thinking. why won’t they just listen to me? why won’t they see things my way? how long is this song? it seems like it’s been forever. i’ve passed galaxies and worlds in this subway tunnel, the stars too fast for my eyes to grasp. i can’t think my way out of this one. no amount of thoughts flying around my head can fix the necessity of simply doing nothing. my hand is forced to be empty. i need to bluff. it’s way too bright in here.
logan.
thank god this song is over. i’m going to do homework instead. i don’t like this song very much, but i’m not going to change it. maybe i should turn off the music so i can read better.
wyoming.
hunting park.
erie.
allegheny.
i think i’ll be home soon. i don’t like what they did today, i should listen to my mom more. my eyes are really heavy, i wish i went to bed earlier today. maybe i’ll take a nap when i get home.
susquehanna dauphin.
cecil b. moore.
i don’t like this stop today.
girard.
time is back up to speed. maybe i’ll go to chinatown, buy some moon cakes. the mid autumn festival passed already, i wish i could’ve gone. i don’t really care for half of the things i say i like. maybe it’s a labor of love, to lie about liking something. or maybe i just don’t have the ability to say i don’t like something. but i know i dislike things. i dislike how bright these lights are, **** my migraine is getting stronger. i want to go home. i am going home.
fairmount.
my throat feels like a desert. time to put my phone down. my head hurts too much.
Sep 20, 2022
Sep 20, 2022 at 2:52 PM UTC
glean from the grey light
of storm infested day
knowledge and rumour of
portent and potions which are
the ingredients of her heretic mind
and its tricksy path through the thorns
her face defends against such conversation
deflects the angrier intents and sends them off
like petulant schoolchildren to
stand in a meadow of butterfly's and balloons
their angry little faces red with envy
at the good kids who get ice cream
think bland thoughts children
live bland lives and you can have cookies and cake
all day long
quiet now here on the back porch
'cept Cecil who is mumbling his disgruntled
mind to the saints above
while he sips his bottle of red wine
the soft rain and winter birds
are the symphony to his lone act stage production
of another mans life
which is well lived and hardy
a life without such rain
a life without winter birds
winter birds
huddle next to eachother on tree-limb
waiting for a chance to join the swift sky
dance in its rivers of air
dream in its wondrous star laden halls
breath its wide open sea
winter birds want to fly away
just like me
just like me
Jan 30, 2014
Jan 30, 2014 at 6:58 PM UTC
walked upon your avenue 'bout a thousand times before
ironically, wasn't looking for a score
only had a pen as my sword
it's a shame
but good to know, some things remain the same
don't know what sounds were ringing in my ears then
but the beers and the tears made me a brave ten
guess I didn't feel enslaved then
guess I knew when turn the page when
someone enters your life's story
and you think you're better, cause everything seems boring
when you got neil or tori spitting wisdom in your lobes
and the poor **** is jammin' to that gangster **** that runs the globe
illuminati, glitterati, they don't want your body
it's just an echo of nevermore
used to know a girl named Lenore
until the birds poured into her head
stolen first were the memories and things unsaid
next came the dreams from a solitary bed
might as well have been in the middle of the ocean
I don't pretend to know your pain
or what it's like to lose or gain
I only know that I can conceive the notion
of waves crashing, so soothing, so earth-shattering
the infernal pressure felt from above while you're barely floating
and God seems to be gloating, like he created something in his image
so hold on, no matter how sinister
and of course, they all tell you it's in your mind
it's the devil doing paint by numbers in disguise
it's a gift-wrapped present with nothing inside but lead
but you know that crazy is just a term for the clock in your head
so you listen to his rhymes that flow, so lightly but so heavily
that they become your desire
so you use your last match to blow your best smoke ring
and never notice that the bed's on fire
and now you're back walking on the avenue
it took quite a few spins of that **** for you to get the gist
cause even the sages wouldn't know what side to be on
when it's you against the world, outsider vs insider, and on and on
it goes, so you rub elbows with a stranger
next move could be heaven or be danger
but this is your least favorite life
so you say **** it, hello, my name is, welcome to the show
Jun 22, 2015
Jun 22, 2015 at 1:45 PM UTC
As I have stated before, my father, for twenty years was a game warden for what is now known as The Texas Wildlife Commission. He taught my brother and me a lot about hunting, fishing, and tracking, although I never developed a real liking for fish.
I was fourteen years old the first time he took me on a deer hunt near the south end of Texas' Yellowhouse Canyon, not too far outside of Lubbock, Texas. A rancher friend of dad's gave permission to hunt on his two hundred plus acres.
After about two hours of hiking we finally saw one, about one hundred and fifty yards from us.
Oh, how majestic he was, about an eight-point buck. Dad handed me the 30.06 rifle. Sitting on the ground, with my elbows braced against my knees, dad said, "take the shot when you're ready, but if you wait too long, he will run!"
After it was over, and packing the rifle in its case and closing the trunk lid of the car, dad put his hand on my shoulder and said, "Son, you did well!" I never pulled the trigger. I yelled at that beautiful animal, and he took off as if he were shot out of a cannon. You see, he posed no threat to me. Looking at him through the sight I realized that all he was wanting to do was survive.
I didn't want, or need, a hat rack.
In memory of "Cecil the Lion."
copyright: richard riddle-July 30, 2015
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 7:59 PM UTC
The title didn't lie, this one is not a poem, but a promotion of the expansion of poetry. Do yourself a favor and look up "the poet is ****** by Cecil otter on YouTube. Warning - it is a hip hop song, but it is also one of my favorite poems.
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 9:15 PM UTC
Why cry
This is what
The world
Has become .
Accept
We are worse
Than animals
Who **** for hunger
Or for love .
The killer
Showed his
Baseless ego
Never thinking
How he would feel
If baited and killed .
A majestic creature
More powerful
Than man
Without a weapon
Laid to rest
Brutally .
Assasins ****
For money ,
Religion or politics .
Why **** Cecil
Free of all this .
Mankind
Bow your heads
In shame .
We have reached
The ultimate
Depths
Of degeneration .
Collection of Ms Kusum Rajapakse , Colombo
Jul 31, 2015
Jul 31, 2015 at 9:45 AM UTC
According to Cecil
I'm such a ****
More than slightly psychotic
Borderline *****
Cause I'm such a liar
Turn your back for a second
And I'll burn you like fire
Yeah cause according to Cecil
I'm just so rude
I'll dampen the mood
With my antisocial attitude
Don't touch me, I bite
Always looking for a fight
So don't get caught in my sight
Yeah cause according to Cecil
I ruin the art of writing
My works just not exciting
So terrible, that its frightening
Just so arrogant
Not a true artist, its apparent
Not to mention I've got no talent
Yeah cause according to Cecil
I'm just not nice
As annoying as head lice
Cold as ice
I've got no friends, can't you see
Cause there's so much wrong with me
And if you can see it all after only knowing me for an hour
Then it must all be true
More power to you
My 'friend' Cecil Miller.
Apr 30, 2015
Apr 30, 2015 at 11:56 PM UTC
13th and pine
15th and pine
12th and federal
broad and morris
13th and spruce
juniper and lombard
juniper and locust
13th and walnut
18th and ellsworth
12th and kater
23rd and christian
15th and rodman
9th and filbert
17th and carpenter
10th and spruce
17th and cecil b. moore
23rd and annin
17th and ellsworth
somewhere desolate in Germantown
broad and catherine
12th and spruce
4th and catherine
10th and christian
16th and reed
Jan 17, 2015
Jan 17, 2015 at 1:12 AM UTC
Her band was made up of many cool members. Cecil on drums; he wore a cut down decades old Sisters of Mercy t-shirt bought from Jason, old blue jeans and scuffed boots. Jason noticed this and elbowed Craig in the ribs and drunkenly grinned to his mate,
“That’ll do wonders for my business!” On bass was Ronnie. A full-length leather jacket made him look like an undertaker. Underneath he wore nothing but leather hot pants. Boys and girls alike loved this and thought he looked a million dollars. Then there was guitarist Sunny wearing his studded motorbike jacket with the
picture of a speeding snail painted on the back (this was Sandra’s handiwork, she was too busy making love to a random lad she had picked up to notice). Sunny had black leather combat trousers on and massive gothic boots with chrome toecaps that glittered in the
light. Finally there was Snot the keyboard player, he had a plain white t-shirt on and black leather jeans backed up by combat boots.
Jul 8, 2020
Jul 8, 2020 at 10:15 PM UTC
Won't you hug me?
A hug from Elsa
Or Cecil
Or whoever it might be
I want hugs from
Fellow poets
On Hello Poetry
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 1:57 AM UTC
(Land that doth marry mother lode
of sublime earthen land and sea).
Age of exploration
ushered cruel fate
against “red” men living
in bliss by agents
patch of eden north
o Mason Dixon line
latitude: 39.64839
longitude: -75.95591 alee
perchance designed
by divine providence
with dyslexic humorous bents
Cecil county Maryland
lies like plump backward letter “e”
witnessed topographic erosion
pocked imprimatur marked
meteorological dents
thru inundation of
oceanographic propensities
melding coastline like Galilee
in particular by Chesapeake Bay,
that body of water
abutting like natural fence
first witnessed by captain
John Smith in 1608
mistaking himself tong tied
in sole of Italy
learned faux pas, when crossing paths
with Susquehannas hence,
offered tobacco sticks to natives
while recovering
from injured wounded knee
said other sundry tribes curiously eyed
then (I utilized poetic license)
took smoke from packet of Kents
which twist on actual
historical facts manipulated by me
but more truthful account awash
and replete with more
than interspersed nonsense
and incorporates tract situated
in so called Fertile Crescent – see
settled by Europeans of English stock,
who emigrated with nary a pence
“taming” shrew like “noble savages”
plied Leviathan sized ukuleles
whose might exploited for felling forests,
which timber built cabins with vents.
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 7:17 PM UTC
Winged birds swoop from the sky
At the edges of light, tame and wild
Cecilia watched, I don't know why
But she stood...and she smiled
The sky was maybe a lilac blue
Like the water of a sea
A colour remembered fondly, you
Stood and watched with me
With your friends and with your flowers
Falling asleep in meditations
Beneath the arriving of showers
You held young orchids and carnations
Soon I beg for our departure, I cry
"Let us leave," I say to you
But I know my words do not fly
Nor are they a lilac blue
And so, I stand beside you, still
Underneath a sky, I admit is like no other
One day we'll leave, you say we will
But for now I sit at the feet of my mother
~.~
The music then plays softly, sweet
The notes you say you love
Looking up from my grassy seat
I listen to the stars above,
They're Dancing to a nightly tune
Above and behind your shoulder
Along with the changing moon
Our stay turns one year older
With the music and with the night
You teach patience to your child
None is wrong and all is right
When Cecil watched and smiled
With the music that's tossed and turned
You teach calmness to your daughter
All is taught but none is learned
With the Washing of waves in water
~.~
All at once the showers arrive
But your daydream has not slept
The lessons taught are kept alive
I promise -
In my ***** hands they are kept
Where we go and where we went
And the time we spend there
Now just sit, be content
The year will be new and fair
Sep 21, 2017
Sep 21, 2017 at 6:23 PM UTC