Each July I am in front of the tele with Versus on watching the tour de france bicycle race. Naturally, I must compose a poem to my favorite sport, next to track and field....
July and time for the Tour
Will it be another podium for Contador?
Can Schleck keep from jumping the chain?
Will doping rear its head again?
I'll root for Basso and Liquigas
or Team Garmin and the Americans
Danielson, Zabriskie, Van Velde and Ferrar fast.
I hope Leipheimer or Horner win a stage
Remnants of Armstrong's legendary age.
Hincapie on BMC in his final Tour
Never again to lead the peloton up the
steep Col de Tourmalet.
On his wheels the young Garderen and Pate glide
The Highroad welcoming the white jersey young riders.
In twenty-one stages the yellow jersey is crowned
And hopefully I'll just be inspired to pedal around.
98 years of cycling through France
Still they hate the Americans and Lance.
Kids and trikes grow into men on bikes.
But in our country it's all in fall football hikes.
No matter, come July second I'll be glued to Versus
Eagerly listening to Paul and Phil
call the race for us
Me in my tight lycra attire
the seams about to bust!
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Homewood Hymn by john clare
this poem reflects my thoughts upon my father who passed on this March. Homewood was his birthplace in Mississippi in 1924.
Does a new day bring light?
Has the light swallowed the dark?
Come day a squint into bright
The beams still painfully sharp.
On goes the gauze again
In streams the soothing dark
Not ready to walk in gleams
of light beams deadly sharp.
Many meant for the night
Few called to walk wide waking
Freed from the terrible fright
Always giving, never once taking.
In countless wards the halt
The little wars raging on
Light brigades assault for naught
the darkness ever so strong.
Allured to the prospect of sight
we wave the white flag and stare
into the binding beams of night
as captured we fall into the lair.
Hand on shoulder on shoulder on
the line of the lame snakes along
Til all glimmers are finally gone
No one remaining to recall home.
And in the darkened chapel quiet
Faint songs from opened hymns
a remnant chants into the night
Stokes the embers and remembers
Jim and all of them.
Does a new day bring light?
Has the light swallowed the dark?
Come day a squint into bright
The beams still painfully sharp.
On goes the gauze again
In streams the soothing dark
Not ready to walk in gleams
of light beams deadly sharp.
Many meant for the night
Few called to walk wide waking
Freed from the terrible fright
Always giving, never once taking.
In countless wards the halt
The little wars raging on
Light brigades assault for naught
the darkness ever so strong.
Allured to the prospect of sight
we wave the white flag and stare
into the binding beams of night
as captured we fall into the lair.
Hand on shoulder on shoulder on
the line of the lame snakes along
Til all glimmers are finally gone
No one remaining to recall home.
And in the darkened chapel quiet
Faint songs from opened hymns
a remnant chants into the night
Stokes the embers and remembers
Jim and all of them.
Foot Falls by john clare
Often in my journey through i recall the foot falls
the gentle, soft steps in the night,
Soothing the frightened calls in lightening squalls
Putting to flight my youthful fright.
In the deep swamps of a hammock by the Gulf,
lost and calling for father to rescue me,
The familiar foot falls through palmetto's rough
as safe we compassed back to old Camp C.
On the long marathon course there came a wall
I came to a crawl, the legs screaming quit
Then from behind the familiar foot falls,
My old runner friend to pace me through the final splits.
In the grand sanctuary upon my knees
Crying out in my agony of sin,
Came the hushed foot fall to pray beside me
We rose and to a new walk began.
When you pass through along this journey
What sounds do your foot falls bring?
Do they ring with grace and mercy
Give the heart a song to sing?
Pause and listen above the din
For the foot fall that ever trods
Walking ever on to never's end
Ever calling the shoeless to shod.
the gentle, soft steps in the night,
Soothing the frightened calls in lightening squalls
Putting to flight my youthful fright.
In the deep swamps of a hammock by the Gulf,
lost and calling for father to rescue me,
The familiar foot falls through palmetto's rough
as safe we compassed back to old Camp C.
On the long marathon course there came a wall
I came to a crawl, the legs screaming quit
Then from behind the familiar foot falls,
My old runner friend to pace me through the final splits.
In the grand sanctuary upon my knees
Crying out in my agony of sin,
Came the hushed foot fall to pray beside me
We rose and to a new walk began.
When you pass through along this journey
What sounds do your foot falls bring?
Do they ring with grace and mercy
Give the heart a song to sing?
Pause and listen above the din
For the foot fall that ever trods
Walking ever on to never's end
Ever calling the shoeless to shod.
Wailing Hall by john clare
returning to the nursing home environment, where we spent many weeks with Melanie as she went through rehab, the lonely ones came to mind again.
Against the walls in halls from home
The gentle hearts cry all alone
In diapered dependence they cling
to dignity behind the curtained veil.
In silence they weep as those about
howl and wail.
To make the climb past eighty only
to tumble to the treating as a baby
With trembling hands
faint vision
muffled sound
unable to stand alone
And all they want is to be at home.
Pray for the gentle hearts left
to die in the institutions of the aged
Conveniently forgotten assuming
their needs are met.
But what we fail to see
or hear
or smell
As we repose in our summer places
resting under the shady trees
listening to the gurgling brook
muffled fro their weeping
in the halls at night
Far
Far
From home.
Against the walls in halls from home
The gentle hearts cry all alone
In diapered dependence they cling
to dignity behind the curtained veil.
In silence they weep as those about
howl and wail.
To make the climb past eighty only
to tumble to the treating as a baby
With trembling hands
faint vision
muffled sound
unable to stand alone
And all they want is to be at home.
Pray for the gentle hearts left
to die in the institutions of the aged
Conveniently forgotten assuming
their needs are met.
But what we fail to see
or hear
or smell
As we repose in our summer places
resting under the shady trees
listening to the gurgling brook
muffled fro their weeping
in the halls at night
Far
Far
From home.
who will sit by john clare
this poem is autobiographical of sorts. It was i who sat with Melanie several months as she suffered through H1N1 and acute ARDS. Then it was my father, whom I sat with as he had the massive stroke and died a month later. It was my son Jordon, whom we sat with a collapsed lung. It was my mother, who we sit with now from breaking her leg on the fourth of July. She is at the nursing home in rehab. Then it was I in 09, having the neuro cardio syncope episode, needing a pace maker for a blocked artery after a stent. Since 09, much sitting.
Who will sit beside the bed of the dying
Hold the hand that once held you close
Search the closet for the burial clothes
See the smiling photo and not stop crying.
Then who will sit beside the bed of a wife
Too young to die and leave her children
On a ventilator with kidney failure setting in
The doctors beyond all they know to save her life.
Who will sit with the granny in the nursing home
When late in the night she cries in the hall
Ignored as senile after repeated calls
Spending long, lonesome days all alone.
Who sits with the teen in the addiction
Screaming for help so softly
Ignored by all so completely
Engrossed in the videos fiction.
Who will sit with the young newlyweds
Struggling just to feed their child
No one seeing the need so loud
Clinging to their abundance instead.
And who sat as I lay upon the table
The athlete trying to run the race
A heart in need of a helping pace
Wanting so fast to run, but unable.
And who will sit when your race has run
When down the laurel you lay
Miles to run before that day you say?
Look again, quickly your finish line comes.
Who will sit beside the bed of the dying
Hold the hand that once held you close
Search the closet for the burial clothes
See the smiling photo and not stop crying.
Then who will sit beside the bed of a wife
Too young to die and leave her children
On a ventilator with kidney failure setting in
The doctors beyond all they know to save her life.
Who will sit with the granny in the nursing home
When late in the night she cries in the hall
Ignored as senile after repeated calls
Spending long, lonesome days all alone.
Who sits with the teen in the addiction
Screaming for help so softly
Ignored by all so completely
Engrossed in the videos fiction.
Who will sit with the young newlyweds
Struggling just to feed their child
No one seeing the need so loud
Clinging to their abundance instead.
And who sat as I lay upon the table
The athlete trying to run the race
A heart in need of a helping pace
Wanting so fast to run, but unable.
And who will sit when your race has run
When down the laurel you lay
Miles to run before that day you say?
Look again, quickly your finish line comes.
Death and the Angel by john clare
this is a poem that tells of the moccasin that i almost stepped upon on the upper banks under the trees of the Suwannee. He more lunged away than struck, but i added poetic license to the story. He could have struck, it all happened to quickly to see.
My death met me today
on the banks of Suwannee
Palmetto upon rotted stump
Suddenly a jump
Toward my bared calf
The moccasin sent fanged wrath
The inner voice said stand!
Striking safe into Florida sand
Into the spring death scurried
And I live to tell
How there was no time
to be worried.
Beady eyed death
You had me today
Again I give thanks
For the angel that puts up
with my
photography.
My death met me today
on the banks of Suwannee
Palmetto upon rotted stump
Suddenly a jump
Toward my bared calf
The moccasin sent fanged wrath
The inner voice said stand!
Striking safe into Florida sand
Into the spring death scurried
And I live to tell
How there was no time
to be worried.
Beady eyed death
You had me today
Again I give thanks
For the angel that puts up
with my
photography.
Heavenly Atlantis by john clare
On this the 42nd year since we landed a man upon the moon and on the eve of the space shuttle Atlantis returning from her final voyage, I sent this poem to the Lake City Reporter. As expected, they never published it.
Soon Atlantis sounds her final sonic boom
As dark side of the moon landings revert to a memory of history.
Our dreams crashing upon the globe of gloom,
Dimming vision down to a earth bound misery.
Will they have perished in vain?
The Flash Gordon's who pierced the stratosphere,
The latter-day Elijah's who in their fiery chariots came,
To give the huddled masses something to cheer.
To drink from the fountains of a Milky Way,
Fathom first hand the cradle of the Celestial dawn,
Embrace it but for a moment creations day,
Compose from the Martian sea a new song.
Far beyond the life of today's narrow men,
A Sagan shall rise and point to the skies,
To heavenly Atlantis we must sail again!
As a gleam returns to the huddled eyes.
Soon Atlantis sounds her final sonic boom
As dark side of the moon landings revert to a memory of history.
Our dreams crashing upon the globe of gloom,
Dimming vision down to a earth bound misery.
Will they have perished in vain?
The Flash Gordon's who pierced the stratosphere,
The latter-day Elijah's who in their fiery chariots came,
To give the huddled masses something to cheer.
To drink from the fountains of a Milky Way,
Fathom first hand the cradle of the Celestial dawn,
Embrace it but for a moment creations day,
Compose from the Martian sea a new song.
Far beyond the life of today's narrow men,
A Sagan shall rise and point to the skies,
To heavenly Atlantis we must sail again!
As a gleam returns to the huddled eyes.
Empty Promises by john clare
we came upon a burnt out bush consumed from flames
lapped some morning dew from the deserted sand
bowed to the golden idols set out in the latter rains
then laid us down and wept for the promised land.
it wasn't how they said it would be
this desert full of scorpions and snakes
no land a flowing in milk and honey
this promised land no one wants to take.
suppose we shall turn back from this pain
return to the sand from which we came
at least they fed us three onions daily
who needs promises when hungering so greatly?
and so the empty ones soon were gone
with fires bright by the golden calves they did feast
yet the inner hunger lingered with a bitter groan
a kingdom within stirring in the belly of the beast.
lapped some morning dew from the deserted sand
bowed to the golden idols set out in the latter rains
then laid us down and wept for the promised land.
it wasn't how they said it would be
this desert full of scorpions and snakes
no land a flowing in milk and honey
this promised land no one wants to take.
suppose we shall turn back from this pain
return to the sand from which we came
at least they fed us three onions daily
who needs promises when hungering so greatly?
and so the empty ones soon were gone
with fires bright by the golden calves they did feast
yet the inner hunger lingered with a bitter groan
a kingdom within stirring in the belly of the beast.
John Brown Lives by john clare
My best friend now he is a zealot
Everywhere we go, he has to yell it!
Now how he is friends with me
So shy and timid is a mystery.
One time we knocked on this door
And he began his familiar roar.
I just cowered there and cringed
On this stranger we had just infringed.
He told me, you gotta be on fire,
Your the last gap between hell fire!
Next door I will try and show more zeal,
So next door opened and I began to squeal.
He said, brother! that was mighty fine!
Shuck that corn for the swine!
Somehow I just don't feel so swell
About us saving all these swine from hell.
But I don't dare tell my zealot friend
He'd shuck, skin and send my sorry hide to #@#!
Everywhere we go, he has to yell it!
Now how he is friends with me
So shy and timid is a mystery.
One time we knocked on this door
And he began his familiar roar.
I just cowered there and cringed
On this stranger we had just infringed.
He told me, you gotta be on fire,
Your the last gap between hell fire!
Next door I will try and show more zeal,
So next door opened and I began to squeal.
He said, brother! that was mighty fine!
Shuck that corn for the swine!
Somehow I just don't feel so swell
About us saving all these swine from hell.
But I don't dare tell my zealot friend
He'd shuck, skin and send my sorry hide to #@#!
Mamma Calling by john clare
Who's face was that I saw in memory today?
Vivid in minds play as we rode past the lane
where once you quietly came than ran away
Mamma calling, mamma calling
her tender girl from loves way.
Why do the dozers and the axe men not come
To pave over this narrow path to yesterday?
Do lovers yet find this canopy under the summer sun
Swirling long, not hearing
Mamma calling, mamma calling them home?
And up the road across the open field
Above the trees you can just see the old chimney
And when the sun is low and all is still
In memory i hear
Mamma calling, Mamma calling
her away, away from me.
Vivid in minds play as we rode past the lane
where once you quietly came than ran away
Mamma calling, mamma calling
her tender girl from loves way.
Why do the dozers and the axe men not come
To pave over this narrow path to yesterday?
Do lovers yet find this canopy under the summer sun
Swirling long, not hearing
Mamma calling, mamma calling them home?
And up the road across the open field
Above the trees you can just see the old chimney
And when the sun is low and all is still
In memory i hear
Mamma calling, Mamma calling
her away, away from me.
New Creation by john clare
Have you ever had someone put your life to rhyme
in such a way to rhyme every line?
Were you ever the subject in the frame
the master work of angelic acclaim?
In the tapestry of the weave
Did the loom waft your story?
Yet spin a constellation by night?
Spell bound in creations new artistry?
In illuminated pages has your name been written?
Gold-leafed icon crafted in detailed attention?
No brush too fine to span the line
No ink too dark to etch beyond the mark
Paints upon poets
Rhymes in artists
Clay pounded into weavers
Granite chipped from seers
Into kilns go the parchments
The fire glazing the new sonnet
Another creation with the Masters
signature upon it.
in such a way to rhyme every line?
Were you ever the subject in the frame
the master work of angelic acclaim?
In the tapestry of the weave
Did the loom waft your story?
Yet spin a constellation by night?
Spell bound in creations new artistry?
In illuminated pages has your name been written?
Gold-leafed icon crafted in detailed attention?
No brush too fine to span the line
No ink too dark to etch beyond the mark
Paints upon poets
Rhymes in artists
Clay pounded into weavers
Granite chipped from seers
Into kilns go the parchments
The fire glazing the new sonnet
Another creation with the Masters
signature upon it.
Towle House Haunting by john clare
Do you not know why you are haunted at night?
Why you hear strange shuffling sounds?
See images groping by moon's light?
Do you not know you built upon sacred ground?
Years ago, where now all is paved and manicured
great trees and gardens once grew
The lady who owned it was assured
Her great trees and gardens we could always walk through.
But along came a man who preached a smooth word
He convinced the lady to sell him her land
And for a time he kept her assured
By planting greater gardens and trees so grand.
The years passed and the lady died in peace
The preacher moved in and kept her old house the same
Each year with his toil the harvest increased
But then into his heart a darkness came.
He longed for the love of a younger one
Dedicated his land a garden to her love
Unknown to him the haunting had begun
As the old lady frowned from above.
In anguished madness he buried her returned letters
Quit watering and weeding the lovely garden
Living in the anger of his own fetters
Bearing the bitter harvest of his yearned for sin.
And into this darkness entered a shrewd realtor
The preacher took his first offer without the promise
The outcome of the end of hearts desire
Betraying the sacred trust without even a kiss.
Within a year the preacher moved on to another yearn
The old house was split in two and moved
Every tree and plant was cut, piled and burned
Rows of houses built with driveways smooth.
So as you wake in sweat from fitful sleep
Its ole Mrs Towles you see groping in the night
Blindly feeling for the trees he promised to keep
Calling for that preacher who once saw the light.
Why you hear strange shuffling sounds?
See images groping by moon's light?
Do you not know you built upon sacred ground?
Years ago, where now all is paved and manicured
great trees and gardens once grew
The lady who owned it was assured
Her great trees and gardens we could always walk through.
But along came a man who preached a smooth word
He convinced the lady to sell him her land
And for a time he kept her assured
By planting greater gardens and trees so grand.
The years passed and the lady died in peace
The preacher moved in and kept her old house the same
Each year with his toil the harvest increased
But then into his heart a darkness came.
He longed for the love of a younger one
Dedicated his land a garden to her love
Unknown to him the haunting had begun
As the old lady frowned from above.
In anguished madness he buried her returned letters
Quit watering and weeding the lovely garden
Living in the anger of his own fetters
Bearing the bitter harvest of his yearned for sin.
And into this darkness entered a shrewd realtor
The preacher took his first offer without the promise
The outcome of the end of hearts desire
Betraying the sacred trust without even a kiss.
Within a year the preacher moved on to another yearn
The old house was split in two and moved
Every tree and plant was cut, piled and burned
Rows of houses built with driveways smooth.
So as you wake in sweat from fitful sleep
Its ole Mrs Towles you see groping in the night
Blindly feeling for the trees he promised to keep
Calling for that preacher who once saw the light.
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