"unflagging" poems
Let those who will of friendship sing,
And to its guerdon grateful be,
But I a lyric garland bring
To crown thee, O, mine enemy!
Thanks, endless thanks, to thee I owe
For that my lifelong journey through
Thine honest hate has done for me
What love perchance had failed to do.
I had not scaled such weary heights
But that I held thy scorn in fear,
And never keenest lure might match
The subtle goading of thy sneer.
Thine anger struck from me a fire
That purged all dull content away,
Our mortal strife to me has been
Unflagging spur from day to day.
And thus, while all the world may laud
The gifts of love and loyalty,
I lay my meed of gratitude
Before thy feet, mine enemy!
11k
SOLDIER OF FORTUNE
Book down both my idleness and memories,
Come the 52nd summer, through ship to ship
The last sail from city to city, the perturb To Contempt
Thy will at time remain snub, hath my time being
Hoaxed with an irony to bare my dream, for my family,
my slug Hit the deepest of my wish, with an arm to an
Armor, though my gentle verse never indulge volitionary,
What’s Worth in me hath grown, neither my dream
Extant, to whom shall I sell? Thy portrait reckon without
understanding The captivity my dreams, to whom
shall I cry My bootless fate?, Hast thee forsaken me?
Thou art trouble me not , Thee Succeed anyone
In an unflagging quest for a word, though art’s will
For sinners, saint and believers never change
Feb 13, 2015
Feb 13, 2015 at 5:25 AM UTC
My mother is dying.
It is a process. Days pass,
She neither eats or drinks,
Yet she lives on.
I watch each labored exhalation,
A subtraction, a countdown.
It is as if she was returning each singular day,
Every prayer uttered, answered and unanswered,
Every word e're spoke, every dream dreamt,
She ever possessed to the atmosphere,
For sharing, for recalling, for retelling,
One breath at a time.
~~~~~~~~~
Lipstadt-Roth, Miriam née Peiman, 1915~2013,
passed peacefully Sat. July 20th.
Critic, speaker, writer,
her fiercest feat,
her leading role, creator.
A near century of memories
her legacy, memories that
linger not, for incised,
chiseled in the granite of the
books, papers, and poetry
and the very being
of her descendants.
Her faith in Almighty,
unflagging, for he did not
forsake her in the time of
her old age, when
her strength failed.
Jul 20, 2013
Jul 20, 2013 at 12:53 PM UTC
for Harlon
who recalled them to me five years later, asking for the all of them...
only on Mother’s Day +1
and for Miriam
———————————
My Mother is Dying July 2013
My mother is dying.
It is a process. Days pass,
She neither eats or drinks,
Yet she lives on.
I watch each labored exhalation,
A subtraction, a countdown.
It is as if she was returning each singular day,
Every prayer uttered, answered and unanswered,
Every word e're spoke, every dream dreamt,
She ever possessed to the atmosphere,
For sharing, for recalling, for retelling,
One breath at a time.
~~~~~~~~~
Lipstadt-Roth, Miriam née Peiman, 1915~2013,
passed peacefully Sat. July 20th.
Critic, speaker, writer,
her fiercest feat,
her leading role, creator.
A near century of memories
her legacy, memories that
linger not, for incised,
chiseled in the granite of the
books, papers, and poetry
and the very being
of her descendants.
Her faith in Almighty,
unflagging, for he did not
forsake her in the time of
her old age, when
her strength failed.
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 5:44 AM UTC
The little girl danced
she took the stage
and she danced
She learned all the positions
one by one
The steps and moves
came naturally
she danced
Her heart and soul
on stage
on display
Music drove her
force of vitality
It was ardor
it was desire
she danced
Among her in-crowd
she was sweet but shy
A goodie two shoes
quiet and meek as a mouse
A scholar a
an unflagging student
Whenever she was sad
she danced
Whenever she was happy
She danced
When it was sunny
She danced
When she fell in love
She danced
She flew from
toe to toe
When she had children
She danced
When she had grandchildren
She danced
Across the tapestry
Of life
She danced
When the banshee howled
She danced
Mar 20, 2017
Mar 20, 2017 at 12:00 AM UTC
I squeeze the juice from my favorite words
and store it inside a decorative vial.
The contents are potent and long since stirred.
The mixture's turned foul with stench and curds,
with shame it's developed a semblance of bile,
'Cause I've squeezed the juice from my favorite words.
In the days when epiphanies simply occurred-
the privalege of picking choice cuts from the pile-
the contents were potent and hadn't been stirred.
Now I'm frozen, unable to harvest when spurred.
There's a dangerous feeling I'm losing my style-
I squeeze more juice from my favorite words.
Enough lamentation; I'll focus on her-
she's my passion, my engine, my nature, my Nile-
her contents are potent and need not be stirred.
Alas! I'm inspired, unflagging, assured.
The momentum she gives lasts me infinite miles.
I squeeze the juice from her powerful words-
the contents are potent and need not be stirred.
Nov 12, 2013
Nov 12, 2013 at 7:51 PM UTC
we lay horizon-angle along aisles of the city,
its veneers bore the clouds as they idle awhile
in copper-bordered cobweb bundles
and rain is language, language is rain,
loosened from the tips of wine-stain tongues,
knuckle being blown or kissed by lip
lines; we trip over them all the time
or shoe-laces of feillemort-freckled boys,
never an umbrella, washed-out old news.
listen to the not-words we aren't speaking in a
shake of salt, a game of conkers, or get out of the city
and to the woodlands where, in a haze of petrichor,
you'll hear it all around on bark and leaf and then
the tinnitus of every caravan or shed.
A tin home with an iron lid to live in,
corrugated skin,
city life is wilderness but I know there is more
and wilder such, but I only half-dream of trees
carrying curses, stolen idols or heirlooms arising in
the anatomy of snakes wearing war-hoods
purely for the purpose of poetry/.
the storms that come can rattle the trees
round the courtyard into an epilepsy unflagging
and then sometimes
in my mind, flowers spit out embers petal-tooth
and lava spills onto tarmac streets.
the night knocks on the closely matched
blocks of paving stones. fireflies are out
but it looks like they'll die, their translucent wings
bring to mind an undressed volcano.
the cathartic outbreak of spiders that
that spread into a multiplication of landmines.
Oct 31, 2016
Oct 31, 2016 at 11:15 AM UTC
with the dog between us
still
we sit here
still
unwavering
your anger unflagging
my sadness incurable
still
we sit here
still
like marble statues
you are ROMAN
cold and white
I am greek
distant and disarmed
still
we sit here
still
in blue-black light
frozen solid
as dots of color
dance and sneer
still
we sit here
still
unable to turn
away from the dissected
lives on the late night news
unable to turn
to each other
still
we sit here
still
and that’s something
right?
Mar 5, 2013
Mar 5, 2013 at 8:14 PM UTC
With the burden of a million curses,
she scuffs in an unflagging way,
fondling zillions as it passes,
the aroma of hope it does spray.
What if time complies with us?
What if she ceases to budge ?
What if she gives in to our pleadings?
What if she doesn’t move even if we nudge?
With time sufferings would linger,
tears ceaselessly would wet your face,
that ” time almost heals everything”
would not descend to embrace.
Your wounds wouldn’t metamorphose to scars,
contusions would continue to reek,
pain would mangle you in its grip,
recovery, from none you can seek.
Despair would clad you eternally,
you will find no light at the tunnel’s end,
darkness would compel you to succumb,
no ray of hope would glisten to amend.
The woes of ailing men wouldn’t stop,
they would dangle on their death beds,
time wouldn’t pass rewarding salvation,
making you realise how tarrying time dreads.
Sorrow would prevail for good,
worries would always conjure up,
a wait would end no more,
an ocean would never come of a drop.
Joy wouldn’t replace despondency,
neither well being, malaise,
spring wouldn’t follow winter,
neither clarity , haze.
The crux of life is transience,
perpetuity we can’t endure,
let time slither as she does,
for each agony she’ll leave a cure.
Mar 31, 2020
Mar 31, 2020 at 8:44 AM UTC
Weathered of snows and rains and smokes and fires,
Veteran of storms and gales and floods and squalls,
Seasoned of winters and summers and frosts and thaws,
The tired tree, unflagging, rests not.
Stripped of twigs, bark, and even limbs to dry for fueling men’s fires,
Leaves inhaled by ants and the young of every moth and butterfly,
Sweet sap, sylvan life’s blood, drained to gild the breakfast plate,
The giving tree, robbed, remains no less generous.
Gnawed alive by armies of tunneling insects in their divisions,
Bark scored and gouged with signs and graffiti and lover’s initials,
The heart of the forest smiles, the woodland holds no grudges,
The dying tree, patient and immortal, grows on.
Mar 15, 2018
Mar 15, 2018 at 12:08 PM UTC
Though I’m
Less attractive
As I’m not a fool
I set criteria
My wife to be
Ravishingly beautiful.
Though I have
A wandering eye
Cast yours
On lothario’s why?
Though my
Achilles’ heel
Is infidelity
I demand from you
Unflagging loyalty.
Though
The breadwinner
Is I
To juggle
Two or more jobs
Try not you why?
Of course
Forget not to tackle
Domestic chores.
Though I come home
When peep stars bright
Get home when
Days cede place to night!
Though I’m spendthrift
I expect you
To prepare a dish
I relish.
Though I don’t know
My son’s grade
I’m afraid
Help him out with
Assignments you have
Before he
Goes to bed.
Though I’m
Growing grotesque
And old
Why don’t you
Exercise care
Your beauty to
Maintain or hold?
Though I’m peevish
Fix in your mind
You must not
Pay me in kind.
Though I’m
To you
Less respectful
And rude
To whatever I say
Be crude.
Though I’m dictatorial
And prefer to use
The stick
This habit of mine
Get not sick.
Though I’m
In love making weak
Contentment elsewhere
Do not try to seek.
Though I’m
Willing with you
On marital avenue
Long to walk
Shun we must
On the complication
A hard talk.
Though I’m
A grown up
Pamper me
As a newly born
Its mother
That has to worn.
Feb 4, 2021
Feb 4, 2021 at 8:18 AM UTC
Awareness about behavior,
present since mine days of yore
an unswerving allie analogous
to peacekeeper ending civil war
belated insight suddenly realized
(better late than never) doth underscore
incumbent proactive communication stance
belatedly bestowed omnipotent awareness
crucial fostering ingredient to shore
maternal bond above
bejesus ear splitting roar
I admit regret (to self), there
dost belie suppressed yen to pour
out sorrows 'twixt this sole him son,
and long deceased mother, he
deprived her his love and outwore
the Scottish tartan Harris tweed
welcome (haz) mat, which pained
materialized soon after her death, nor
can compensation be made,
now ex post facto,
when futility of spilt tears got more
gauged and swept away, when
nary a trace I privately cried
amidst lachrymose lakeshore.
20/20 hindsight brought me unflagging mast
into stark painful focus,
essentially how mine
formative behavior wrought avast
dystopian emotional fractured mindscape,
which non positive coping methods
lit fuse kindling devastating catastrophic blast
from yesteryear to present silent woebegone
desolate gloomy terrain past
grandeur eclipsed by present gloom
finds yours truly stranded like cast
away bleached flotsam upon coast
amidst tempestuous rocky shoals
clinging for dear life with grasp fast,
Where tenuous, precarious,
and ludicrous ship
of state can no longer maintain
even a marginal grip
but with slight equip
age willing, wedding,
and wanting brings relief from whip
lashed incurred (within body) showing rip
pulled scarred taut welts testimony, sans
long electrified with aggravation,
excruciation, and intoleration can easily flip
a figurative switch in summary
ushering final lip
service to charade,
facade, and masquerade
at lightspeed didst clip
this...Potemkin Village,
where everything "FAKE,"
asper envisioning flickr
ring mirage recounting ancient Egypt!
Jan 12, 2019
Jan 12, 2019 at 3:53 PM UTC