"harried" poems
Why am I so dif-fer-ent?
They say I’m out of touch.
Why am I, ple-nar-ily sad?
This life it hurts so much.
And why do they come, come every day?
Shush, quiet now, they’re here.
Those awful tormentors of my soul all cackling and queer!
Whirling head of spinning revolutions,
…feel my stomach ache and pang.
Why will they not leave me alone?
This crew of darkness; Blackbird Gang.
I shouldn’t always feel like this, feel such solemn pain,
…troubling and trouble is these birds are driving me insane!
I’m screaming now! I’m mad with rage! Throwing ice cubes at my deck,
“Go away! Yes, go away!” -their numbers must be kept in check.
Blackhole-whirl, flying twirling darkness, their funnel it points to me-e-e-e-!
For too many is too painful and my mind’s a constant wreck!
One cannot think with those infernal be-e-e-asts,
...and the crazy song they sang.
Why do they so punish me?
The crew of darkness; Blackbird Gang.
I know they serve the Saturn’s wheel and now they’ve come for me.
What did I do? Oh what great sin, oh the blackbirds from within;
The Abyssimal Sea?
Their whirlpool funnel is all around, as my harried soul, it expiates.
I’m done-in; I’m over now, a sorely victim of the Fates!
They took me, took me away, when the tolling bell it rang.
Why could they not leave me alone?
The crew of darkness; Blackbird Gang.
If you find yourself all alone and mired in their thought,
…do not think, extirpate, all the human damage that you’ve wrought.
His flock of fledgling melancholy musical formation,
…will take you away and straight to Hell; the Seventh Circle congregation!
For they took me, took me away, when the tolling bell it rang.
And they will not leave you alone.
This crew of darkness; Blackbird Gang. *
Jun 23, 2016
Jun 23, 2016 at 11:23 AM UTC
PART II: A GLASS CEILING DRIPPING WITH BLOOD
Mohanad Younis, of Gaza City;
Where the sand is stained with blood
As the world feigns pity.
Broken families, unspoken tragedies –
The order of everyday life.
He was born amidst chaos and strife,
To a divorcing husband and wife.
If life were lived in peace,
This dissolution would’ve been a release.
Not much more, not much less –
A family’s lore, a decision to digress.
In war-ravaged land, however,
One needs every helping hand,
Especially a soul that was so clever.
Such a curious, voracious mind needed to understand;
A furious, rapacious search,
Unexplained conundrums to unravel and unwind.
Why do we exist?
Why do we fight and resist?
Is it worth living with all these scars on my wrists?
Does anybody outside Palestine care?
Will they keep on watching?
Or will they be unable to bear?
Of this and much more Mohanad must’ve thought,
As he sat at the Marna House Hotel,
Smoking cigarettes, freshly bought.
A student at al-Azhar, a mild-mannered pharmacist,
A prudent man who would have gotten far.
An admirer of Bassel al-Araj, another victim of oppression –
An inspirer, a brother who alleviated his depression.
Hunted down and killed by the IDF,
Another pacifist murdered for being an activist.
One figure of many who died;
One of those who did not want to hide.
Mohanad wasn’t a resistance fighter –
He felt that such persistence did not make their burdens lighter.
Instead, he wished to make his mind brighter,
And perhaps have family of his own.
He was in love, and wanted to get married,
But life was rough, and warranted a future far more harried.
The final twist of horror?
Having the intellect to apply for University,
And deserving the respect needed to obtain a reply,
Yet not being allowed to leave the city.
That is the news Mohanad had received,
Hopes and dreams suddenly deceived.
Denied a right to education
Because he was born on the wrong end of a cruel fabrication.
The glass ceiling, dripping with blood,
Swallowed his hopes whole like a flood.
Sep 10, 2018
Sep 10, 2018 at 10:04 AM UTC
Eighteen misses and three survivors
Two broken marriages with one spiteful lost love
Two warring sisters and too many brothers
Numbers don’t always make the lives of another
Crocheted angels and heartfelt hugs
Gone are the days of each of those
Responsible, avoidant, and spoiled
Resentment, confusion, and miscommunication
Ghosts of the past
Harried, busy, and distant
Buy back the time
Patience, hope, and acceptance
Crowding the cast
Three lives play out creating six more
One life still here caught in time
One life locked in with ghosts of the past
cc062611
Jun 26, 2011
Jun 26, 2011 at 2:11 PM UTC
The stink of fish on earthen streets
A hot wind blows from ochre hills
Black faces shine with brilliant teeth
Street market ***** doth cure all ills.
Redness in her plaited hair
Rhythm in her steady tread
A harmony of balance, she carries
Water jars on her head.
A market girl is singing
As she sits among bananas
The drama in her music
Is as dusty as the street,
It fills the air with magic
As it lilts above street chatter
In the atmosphere of Africa
Where new and ancient meet.
The goat boy herds his docile flock
Through camel trains and bales
The steamer tethered at the dock
Announces that she sails
With billowed steam and mournful wail
It echoes through the town
And the planter and his agent
Bargain with a harried frown.
The bleating of the goat herd
And the stench of fish and dung
Is as ordinary as Africa
In the searing mid day sun.
Zanzibar is spices, Zanzibar is Stone.
Club Zanzibar is whiskey on the rocks
Consumed alone
Or shared upon the balcony
In the shadow of a palm
With the turquoise Indian ocean
Reaching out beyond the arm.
Do you see the dhows are sailing?
Do you see the fishing nets?
Do you hear the oarsmen chanting?
Did you see black muscle flex?
Have you watched the dripping sweat
Cascade on alabaster brow?
Have you inhaled the scent of Africa
And allowed it to allow?
Colobus monkeys in the treetops
Narrow lanes in the bazaar
Dull white walls adorn stone buildings
And the rupee is by far
The favorite tenure of the Island
Since the days when slaves were sold
By Arab camel caravaners
Who traded coin for young black gold.
East and west collide in concert
Africa and Asia blend
The Sultan's mix of race and spice
In Zanzibar, beyond lands end.
Marshalg
Mangere Bridge
3rd June 2008
Oct 13, 2009
Oct 13, 2009 at 11:06 PM UTC
Observing these old men sitting at the stockyard cafe,
Suspendered bellies hanging above huge buckles
And button-crotched Levi's tucked tight over leather boots,
Legs grown bowed and thin, but carrying them to the sale, still,
To hear the auctioneer, talking fast to work the buying crowd,
And get their fill of cattle, shoved indoors,
Sold beneath the steady cracking whips,
A spectacle to burn its way into my minds's forever eye:
The skidding steers, the rolling eyes, the frantic scramble to find cover,
While buyers gave their quiet signs:
A tilted cap, a winking eye, a thumb or index finger up or at a side,
To purchase cow or bull or horse, in living flesh...
Then out again, through the other door,
And turn our heads to wait for more, and read the scrolling numbers:
How many head, how much per pound, perhaps a buyer's name,
And then the swinging sound of other cattle coming in to start again.
So, here these old boys sit again,
Slurping coffee through their yellowed teeth,
Remembering days of indoor cigarettes and harried waitresses,
The smell of cow manure and jingling spurs,
Though now the smokeless ring seems tame, more civilized,
I see the glory days reflecting in the old men's eyes.....
I was just a boy back in those good old days,
My memory is a little hazed, but I can recall
When smoking was allowed and sawdust covered the filthy floor,
A Coca-Cola cost a dime, and the cattle sale with Dad was the big time;
Quaking as we treaded light on the catwalks above the pens,
Looked for our calves, or cows Dad culled to bring to sale,
Then going down and in to see them sell.
Fondly now, I can recall the restaurant at the ring
Where I hoped for a slice of lemon pie from behind chill-fogged glass,
Saw cowmen wearing spurs and neckerchiefs and chaps...
Dreamed of growing up to be a cowboy.
Jun 30, 2015
Jun 30, 2015 at 1:32 AM UTC
Today my long tall tulip fell
His pearl-pink bulb had dared to swell
But blushen hung now like a bell
His slim and slender stem once towering
Arced to earth with posture cowering
Burdened by his glory flowering
How quickly he had seemed to climb
To bask in sudden sunlit prime
The longest flower, the shortest time
His adolescent orb once closed
With youthful promise, then exposed
More beauty than we all supposed
And eager straight he stretched to see
The furtive squirrels’ revelry
And blue jays jostling high in tree
His handsome head became a hand
Outstretched to welcome wide and grand
We who’d pale beside him stand
But now his palm points to the ground
Where loyal subjects once were found
A fallen king with withering crown
I saw you flower – be sure of this
Your scented cheeks I bent to kiss
Nor did a day of beauty miss
Though brief your waxing and your wane
Your colours left the purest stain
That in my mind’s eye does remain
In all the world where flowers grow
We sallow souls rush to and fro
Preoccupied, we miss the show
But when we pause to smell the blooms
Held captive by arresting plumes
Forget the sundry that consumes
Thus precious harried minutes take
Our reverie to gaily break
I noticed you -- make no mistake
I studied you that rare of gift
You gave my care-worn spirit lift
Then cut its soaring hopes adrift
Today my long tall tulip fell
Surrendering to Nature’s knell
And left us where he deigned to dwell
Feb 26, 2014
Feb 26, 2014 at 7:21 PM UTC
Harried, Harassed, Hassled and Hounded-
These are the H-words I work by.
Harpies and Henchmen, Harridans and Heathens-
These are the H-folk I work with.
Hubbub and Hokum and Hurly-burly-
These are the places I do it.
Hoodlums and Hooligans, loaded with Hubris-
These are the clients I deal with.
Heartless and Horrible, Hateful and Hurtful
These are the attitudes around me.
Hopeless and Hapless, Haggard and Helpless-
This is the way I usually feel.
What happened to Happy, and Hopeful and Harmony-
These are the H-words I search for.
Hinder and Hobble, Heckle and Hamper-
These are the Hamstrings that trip me.
Heaven and Harmony, Humor and Honor-
These are the things that I strive for.
Havoc and Hades, Hurt, Hate and Hauteur-
These are the H’s that I have to conquer.
Hope, Help, and Herculean effort-
Is How I will finally get myself Home.
ljm
Feb 25, 2017
Feb 25, 2017 at 12:30 AM UTC
Baby birds sit still,
sleeping softly, in baby eggs not hatched,
while mother bird waits patiently
for little shells to crack.
Now little birds with open eyes
chirp sharply without rest,
and mother bird leaves speedily
to gather worms and crumbs of bread.
After their meals, the little birds
are filled with food and joy,
'till mother bird hops closer
to help them soon deploy.
With harried squeaks
and frenzied flapping,
they fall down from their nest,
and mother bird, from up above,
spies patiently, in hopes of their success.
Oct 19, 2011
Oct 19, 2011 at 6:06 PM UTC
If I a wayward traveler
were to rest my weary bones,
I fear I’d quickly find my name
in a garden full of stones.
So I continue trudging onward,
without regard for my direction.
Eyes forever pointed downward
by the fear of my detection.
Carrying the bags of follow travelers
despite their ever growing weight.
My steps harried ever onward
by the fear I might be late.
I can’t see my destination
but I have faith to keep me strong.
I can’t let my pace be slowed
by the fear that I am wrong.
I can’t say I quite recall
even the way this journey started
but I must have held some purpose
on that day I first departed.
So I continue trudging onward
without regard for my confusion.
This journey is about so much more
than my self-involved delusions.
If I a wayward traveler
were to rest my weary bones,
I fear I’d quickly find my name
in a garden full of stones.
Mar 25, 2015
Mar 25, 2015 at 2:34 AM UTC
Out of the noise of tired people working,
Harried with thoughts of war and lists of dead,
His beauty met me like a fresh wind blowing,
Clean boyish beauty and high-held head.
Eyes that told secrets, lips that would not tell them,
Fearless and shy the young unwearied eyes —
Men die by millions now, because God blunders,
Yet to have made this boy he must be wise.
2.4k
You know how when
You put a kettle on a stove,
Maybe for tea
Or something else maybe
You get the kettle
To put on the stove
And you put water in it
From the tap
Or if you're in
The inner city
Then maybe from
A jug
From cvs
Or rite aid
I don't know which is closer
To your kettle
That you're putting the
Water in
To put on the stove
But the tap smells funny
And tastes like minerals
And artificiality
So if you have a bit of money, Maybe an on-tap
Filter or brita
You turn the little
**** on the front
Of the oven
And you hear
The distressed, hurried
Sound of a component
Desperately trying
To do its job
It seems like forever
But it's just a couple
Seconds
The spark catches
The gas
And glorious blue
Energy leaps out
And causes
Instant condensation
On the side of the
Kettle you've filled
With water
And put on the stove
And then
Primordial chemistry
As old as old
Changes ****
Around inside
No time
For a chem lesson
Just listen
And then after a few minutes
A blast of
Piping hot
Shrill
Pure energy
Explodes out of the top
In an earsplitting
Harried call
To you to let you
Know the kettle
You put on the stove
Is now ready
For you.
All that pressure,
From so much activity,
Before you even
Turned the heat on
You walked around
Gathering materials
And moving about
And all the calories
You burn thinking
About it
And then the
Thermal activity
Which is breathtaking
In its simple
But ever so complicated
Perfect order
And predictability
And all of this simply
Amazing process
Culminates
In one constant,
High energy geyser
Of released pressure.
This is equivalent
To the results
Of one thought
About you.
What a life
As a kettle.
Yea.
Sep 3, 2012
Sep 3, 2012 at 11:07 PM UTC
It was the type of day Wellington is infamous for:
rain slanting into the pursed and puckered faces
of harried pedestrians
and I, out and about with my secret
that in the tall towers where the wheels
grind slowly
a thing not made of commerce
a growing not spurred by market forces
an investment not subject to whims and crises,
but a spark ignited by two people
laying themselves open to love
and hope and dreams and
schemes sometimes lost sight of,
was fanning the flame,
the head, heart, flesh, bone and wairua
of a life
taking root in my beloved's belly,
a life long longed for
a life
whose existence sweeps before it all petty irritations
and affixes itself on my face
as a big stupid grin
Feb 25, 2015
Feb 25, 2015 at 7:02 PM UTC
The male tortoise was quite harried,
more than that hurt,
not being able to get
the logistics right,
to copulate with its mate,
even after repeated attempts,
in which the girl did her best!
The keeper of his cage
and other men stood
as mute spectators,
looking the other way
acting coy,
offering no help.
**How could he know
that they didn't want
to be seen
as a zoophilous lot!**
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 10:36 AM UTC
Who knows what losses
this infinitely rich
and resilient heart has suffered?
The sorrowful splendor of the Earth --
its endless cycle of gestation
and bringing forth,
its eternal season of becoming
and decay --
inspires and beckons her silent musings.
And her muted passion,
burning with the
mesmerizing ardor of the innocent,
awakens a diffident adoration
in the bickering brood that surrounds her.
How beleaguering they are!
these driven ones, so eager
to possess the elusive beauty
that stirs the dark, enigmatic
depths of their harried souls.
*** unwitting they are!
those dreary ones...
Destiny has drawn them
to the shimmering, diaphanous aura
of her breathless presence.
And destiny will drain them
like a brimming chalice,
so full of their impetuous blindness.
For they will never see
how she is set apart
by the wandering, restive vision
of the chosen.
But I see her,
standing alone on the fringe
of the tumultuous herd.
She gazes at me with
that subtle, sacred smile,
and I feel the threatening,
familiar forces of the universe descend --
Jacob
wrestling with the angel of authenticity.
She gazes at me,
and in the still light
of that impenetrable look...
the silence speaks!
I tremble in anticipation.
I listen and am fed.
For Laura.
Sep 4, 2018
Sep 4, 2018 at 4:01 PM UTC
To Gods acre caught in the storm
Of the angels immolation harried
Like welcome strangers to the feast of
The good shepherd, the world
The flesh, the devil take the hindemost
Vigilantly stalking Earthly tears
Encrusted jewels upon Hells vestment,
The harbinger of death wearing a garland
Of skulls fashioned off of Heavens tomb
Splendiferously graven upon lonelinesses
Stoop spirited as shooting stars the
Pitched candles of sovereignties saintly hands
Resting between lives enlightening the broken
Lamp of truth purging the liasing humours of
Illuminous damnation unfrocking priests
Under colour of nothingness epitomising
Faiths elixer yonder the gate of unfoldenment
Breaking butterflies on the wheel
Of rightousness unabating delving the vale
Deciduously to show the cloven hoof woe betide
The levity of Man Friday billowing in the
Teeth of the wind.
ELEETE J MUIR.
Jan 13, 2012
Jan 13, 2012 at 1:18 PM UTC
You are the clapping monkey
You are the restless throb of dusty city streets
You are the children running around after the school bell
And the stubborn tree that has lived in the neighbourhood for fifty years
However, you are not clipped footsteps of harried workers
Or the diligent, clockwork-like ebb of traffic
And you are certainly not tranquil duck in the middle of the city park
There is just no way that you are the tranquil duck
It might interest you to know that
I am the neat, color-coded filing cabinet
I also happen to be worn-out recliner beckoning in the evening’s light
And the ever-winding, deserted country road
I also happen to be the free-floating paper bag
But don’t worry, you are still the clapping monkey
You will always be that clapping monkey
And I am the enchanted audience.
Feb 24, 2013
Feb 24, 2013 at 1:18 PM UTC
The First. My great-grandfather spoke to Edmund Burke
In Grattan's house.
The Second. My great-grandfather shared
A pot-house bench with Oliver Goldsmith once.
The Third. My great-grandfather's father talked of music,
Drank tar-water with the Bishop of Cloyne.
The Fourth. But mine saw Stella once.
The Fifth. Whence came our thought?
The Sixth. From four great minds that hated Whiggery.
The Fifth. Burke was a Whig.
The Sixth. Whether they knew or not,
Goldsmith and Burke, Swift and the Bishop of Cloyne
All hated Whiggery; but what is Whiggery?
A levelling, rancorous, rational sort of mind
That never looked out of the eye of a saint
Or out of drunkard's eye.
The Seventh. All's Whiggery now,
But we old men are massed against the world.
The First. American colonies, Ireland, France and India
Harried, and Burke's great melody against it.
The Second. Oliver Goldsmith sang what he had seen,
Roads full of beggars, cattle in the fields,
But never saw the trefoil stained with blood,
The avenging leaf those fields raised up against it.
The Fourth. The tomb of Swift wears it away.
The Third. A voice
Soft as the rustle of a reed from Cloyne
That gathers volume; now a thunder-clap.
The Sixtb. What schooling had these four?
The Seventh. They walked the roads
Mimicking what they heard, as children mimic;
They understood that wisdom comes of beggary.
1.9k
It's Friday night, I knock back five
Then stumble out to hit the club
I catch your eye looking for mine
Looking for a lover you don't have to love
A harried glance, we start the dance
With roaming, groaning hands
And sweat, and grit, and scripted friction
A masterclass of sham romance
But you're not you and I'm not me
And these red cups won't set us free
And I regret the way we met
As faceless strangers in a drunken sea
I wish it were morning
To watch the wind play in your hair
I wish it were morning
To see the sunlight in your stare
I wish it were morning
When I could tell you what I think
I wish it were morning
Without the help of all these drinks
The ***** on your breath, it smells like death
And your lips don't taste quite right
And your Levi jeans pressed up against me
Just aren't doing it tonight
The hiccup when you flirt, and the ***** on your shirt,
Match the beer-stains on your shoes
With your empty flask, and your haggard mask
I just can't stand the sight of you
And while I'd like to spend the night
And wake up warm between the covers
I tip my hat instead, and see you off to bed
Because poets are daytime lovers.
Jan 29, 2013
Jan 29, 2013 at 4:54 PM UTC
A general and statesman,
reformer and conquerer,
summoned to the senate,
and hastily issued a petition
of which to bring back a senators
banished brother.
The Dictator Waves him off,
and Cimber grasps his shoulder,
“Ista quidem vis est!”*1
Cascas dagger is drawn,
swiftly toward the neck it darts,
yet caesar nimbly catches such
attack,
“Casca you villain! What is this you do!?”
Casca fearing, cries “Adelphe, Boethei!”*2
Then like the wolves descending on
a lonely foe, they lunge and leap,
Brutus too…
Caesar at the sight of him,
averts his eyes and makes for the door,
unable to escape he falls upon the floor,
“Kai su, Teknon?”*3
The man who was harried,
crawled to the steps, and
saying nothing,
Caesar dies…
The Lower steps submerged in the
Emperors crimson blood,
the body cold, limp,
lifeless,
had at by the vultures,
armed with knives, and
stabbed times twenty-three.
The conspirators proud,
marched through the streets,
and announced to fear-struck
citizens,
“People of Rome! We are once again free!”
Yet, no one came out…
for now.
until, Three hours passed,
and only then,
was the fallen mans lifeless,
corpse drenched in blood,
collected and cremated.
Jan 18, 2012
Jan 18, 2012 at 10:35 PM UTC
"Ah, did you once see Shelley plain?" -- Browning.
"Shelley? Oh, yes, I saw him often then,"
The old man said. A dry smile creased his face
With many wrinkles. "That's a great poem, now!
That one of Browning's! Shelley? Shelley plain?
The time that I remember best is this --
A thin mire crept along the rutted ways,
And all the trees were harried by cold rain
That drove a moment fiercely and then ceased,
Falling so slow it hung like a grey mist
Over the school. The walks were like blurred glass.
The buildings reeked with vapor, black and harsh
Against the deepening darkness of the sky;
And each lamp was a hazy yellow moon,
Filling the space about with golden motes,
And making all things larger than they were.
One yellow halo hung above a door,
That gave on a black passage. Round about
Struggled a howling crowd of boys, pell-mell,
Pushing and jostling like a stormy sea,
With shouting faces, turned a pasty white
By the strange light, for foam. They all had clods,
Or slimy ***** of mud. A few gripped stones.
And there, his back against the battered door,
His pile of books scattered about his feet,
Stood Shelley while two others held him fast,
And the clods beat upon him. 'Shelley! Shelley!'
The high shouts rang through all the corridors,
'Shelley! Mad Shelley! Come along and help!'
And all the crowd dug madly at the earth,
Scratching and clawing at the streaming mud,
And fouled each other and themselves. And still
Shelley stood up. His eyes were like a flame
Set in some white, still room; for all his face
Was white, a whiteness like no human color,
But white and dreadful as consuming fire.
His hands shook now and then, like slender cords
Which bear too heavy weights. He did not speak.
So I saw Shelley plain."
"And you?" I said.
"I? I threw straighter than the most of them,
And had firm clods. I hit him -- well, at least
Thrice in the face. He made good sport that night."
1.7k
I walk past the old woman
who wears unflattering red lipstick,
vivid as cartoon blood,
and jeweled chopsticks in her hair.
We meet haunted eyes,
full of defiant sorrows.
The pudgy little girl streaks past,
pigtails askew, sandals mismatched
by herself or a harried mother
she is either running to, or away from.
The boy with the closed face,
like a letter that no one opens
for fear of what it might hold,
reaches for the same book I am reaching for.
We smile at one another, surprised.
Such small things bring recognition.
We are the same inside.
Apr 29, 2014
Apr 29, 2014 at 4:50 PM UTC
**Topsy and Turvy, hassled and harried
jostled among a jungle of jumble,
so busy they beavered, in search of a bauble
upon all the shelves, so deftly they delved,
... within the lair of the piffling frippary.
They ambled and rambled, so giddy they gambolled
and sought for that trivial trinket or trifle,
they rummaged and rifled, their eagerness stifled,
through struggle, they strived, from nine until five,
... within the lair of the piffling frippary.
Staunch but stressed, their zest so hard pressed
for until discovered, found and recovered,
they muttered and spluttered, and audibly uttered
within the lair of the piffling frippary,
... persuing that piece of paltry frivolity.
Now flagging, they floundered, not finding the foible
in shambles they rambled, revealing reluctance,
and ceding, conceding, they threw in the towel
on trembling, tottering knees they now tumbled,
... out of the lair, of the piffling frippary.
... ... ...**
Feb 6, 2012
Feb 6, 2012 at 10:42 AM UTC
We strode together in another age, my love,
You, in your earthen gown and beautiful dark tresses.
I, the wearer of the long plaited, thong and sinew sandal.
You and I, we strode through quiet valleys of tall conifer
Where huge rock falls left monolithic edifices... as monuments to past largess.
Together we walked as one, in a world much simpler than the one we live in now.
In a time, without the inhibition of contrivance or sophistication.
We walked in clarity and drank from clear, clean waters.
We dallied in the honeyed light of a huge, summer moon.
A field of dandy lions in the warm April sunshine, was the byre in which we made love and produced our babies.
A love ... un-harried, unhurried and devoid of any preoccupation other than that of the beautiful desire
We felt for each other.
The love we feel now is the same as the love shared then;
But in this age it is diluted and complicated by the urgencies and imperatives of the day.
Then there was just time...given and taken.
Without cost or penalty, without blame or insinuation, without hurt or harm.
Time in that better age...was a friend.
A friend who augmented the beauty of today into the promise of tomorrow,
A friend who exchanged the serenity of yesterday for the excitement of the new day’s dawn.
This was our time, when the bond of eternity sealed our commitment to each other.
For however many lifetimes we may live in...
We shall be one.
Marshalg
For darling Janet
12 September 2011
Sep 12, 2011
Sep 12, 2011 at 3:14 PM UTC
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thirty years apart/making love at the midpoint/Zeno's minding the gap
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*we are a thrifty thirty years apart
but we make love as if it were an
after school, really hungry, special snack
laugh at myself once again
for this tom, **** 'n harried foolishness
knowing no good can come of this
other than what has already
come and gone,
life's reaffirmation is not age dependent,
we love in the light of embers brightest glow
the older man is at the midpoint trap of
Zeno's Paradox^
can never grow down to be
closer to her to her youth,
given his head start,
his slowing motion,
can never catch
her down,
or she,
up to him
physics laws forcibly insist they both have lost this race*
"In a race, the quickest runner
can never overtake the slowest,
since the pursuer must first reach the point
whence the pursued started,
so that the slower must always
hold a lead. "
as recounted by Aristotle, Physics VI:9, 239b15
*too quick to be born,
now the fastest and oldest,
though having reached
the equidistant point between,
will forever never be able to
close the gap
I mind the gap,
I mine the gap
for rousing poems,
from passion piercing fierce love making
prayers preserving the falsity of a
magic illusion of a growing nearness
that we will never grow apart,
burdened that truer is,
never ever closer
she asks me with great tenderness,
why I moisten mine eyes
after our great joy
replying, honestly
I am minding the gap
answers the broken joyous
poet of now, no way*
<>
"Mind the gap" ( listen (help. · info)) is an audible or visual warning phrase issued to rail passengers in the United Kingdom (and elsewhere) to take caution while crossing the horizontal, and in some cases vertical, spatial gap between the train door and the station platform.
^https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zeno%27s_paradoxes
Jul 24, 2016
Jul 24, 2016 at 7:44 AM UTC
I was there before the beginning
Before the conception of time and space,
when nothing was everything
and everything was nothing.
In vain I waited for you to materialize
from the ether of emptiness
But you never came.
So there I stood, waiting...
I was there at the beginning
At the conception of time and space
when everthing came from nothing.
I saw the sun, or that condescent
swirling cloud of dust that was
to be the sun.
I saw the earth, a miniscule ball
of molten, boiling, writhing anger
I was there when everything, but
you emerged from nothing.
So there I stood, waiting...
I was there at the edge of an
undulating mass of the pimordial ooze,
that sea of everything and nothing.
I saw pleaseasaur ribbon its long,
shiny, black body through the fathomless
depths of the sea
Searching, as was I, for something.
I saw stegasaur, that lumbering
hulk of muscle and scale
take its first precarious
steps onto land
looking, as was I, for something.
Every creature, but one-the one
I wanted, stepped forth
from that roiling soup.
But you never came.
So there I stood, waiting...
I was there when neanderthal
first discovered fire.
I saw that temptress dance
across the contours of his rough,
wind hewn face.
I saw his eyes sparkle as
he and I gazed longingly
into the yellow, red dancer's lair.
Both searching for something
or someone.
I stared and stared hoping
to catch the slightest glimmer
of your eyes.
But you never came.
so there I stood, waiting...
I was there when Egypt and Rome
first peeped their heads
from the cold ground surrounding their feet.
I was there as those stone goliaths, pyramids,
grew block by block
layer by layer
stretching, reaching, longing for heaven's basement.
Just as I longed for you.
I saw Rome's aquaducts,
seemingly endless terracota snakes,
slicing through the eons
blindly feeling for something.
Just as I searched for you
hoping you were searching for me.
But you never came.
So there I stood, waiting...
I was there when we almost killed
the human race, for the second time.
I stood at the entrance to Auschwitz
scanning the multitude of
worn, sullen,destitute face
hoping, praying you weren't there.
Thank God you weren't there.
So there I stood, waiting...
I am here.
In a cold place made of lifeless,
emotionless steal and glass.
I watched as heartless obelisks
devoured the cozy bricks of ancient
neighborhoods. Signaling the undaunted
march of father time.
His harried pace, defies his antiquated frame,
drains my fortitude.
but step for step
night and day
day in and day out
I will wait for you.
So here I stand, waiting...
Oct 19, 2011
Oct 19, 2011 at 4:20 PM UTC