Friday, 25 November 2016

                          MY POEMS

Years ago when I was in the mood to write poems, I wrote these four poems while I was in the State of Michigan as an adult camper in an adult summer camp located midway between the City of Kalamazoo and Lake Michigan. I was a private investigator then and had been sent to that camp to get photographic evidence that my client’s wife was having sex with one of the other adult campers.I succeeded in that task but while I was in that camp, I chose to write some poetry. I am also an artist so I put the poems on the paintings I created which were then hung on the walls of the main building. Here are the poems. I am sorry that the poems in this article are out of alignment but the words haven't been changed. 

                       THE PAINTING                 

His commission was due and well deserving
The instructions and conditions clear.
Paint the Last Supper and you will be preserving
A picture of which Mankind will hold dear.

Fifteen years he searched; his efforts unwavering
To find duplicates of Christ and His twelve.
His determination was unquavering;
This was a task he would continuously delve.

His search for the duplicates was astonishing
In temples, in hovels, in crowds he did look.
His efforts required no reasons for admonishing—
He searched in every cranny and nook.

Then Christ and Judas was all that was remaining
The others he painted the previous years.
His courage  surely kept him refraining
From breaking down in uncontrollable tears.

One day the Christ-like image he found wandering
Amidst a crowd of travelers walking on a road.
The man's face gave him no reason for pondering
in his mind, to paint the likeness of God was sowed.
It was Judas whose image lacked capturing
For evil is hard to express in paint.
Nevertheless, the task was not enrapturing
For Escariot was hardly a saint.

Twenty more years passed, his search unending
Until finally he was ready to quit.
His fears, his failure was now bending
The last supports of his incredible wit.

Then one day when the sky was darkening
   He spotted a man who looked like his goal.
To lose him would be disheartening—
His face in the painting would be his role.
It was descriptive of the evil lurking
Deep in his heart and in his mind.
The face of his subject was smirking
It was the one he knew he would find.

With the canvas complete, he began thinking.
He had seen the face somewhere in his past.
The model told his story, his eyes unblinking
Despite the fact that his story was vast.

Then the painter regretted his inquiring
As somehow he felt he'd been enticed.
To him, his work was now less inspiring                             
The man was the same who posed as Christ.

I have started writing a novel under the same title and have over a hundred pages written so far of that book.  The story takes place during the First Crusade to the Holy Land. And now, my second poem.      

              THE SECOND CHANCE

 The warden of San Quentin had told me of  Bill
He was a lifer who was released after twenty years.
A promise he gave that never again would he kill—
A statement he gave the Board with his tears.

He hadn't seen his wife since forty-two
And he stopped writing her in forty-five.
He assumed her love diminished and was through,
In fact now he wasn't sure if she was even alive.

Nevertheless he wrote her about his undying love
And mailed the letter a week prior to his release.
Then on bended knees he prayed to his God above
Let his future be more than what was in his valise.
   In his letter he he said without hesitation;
If you can forgive me and wish me to come home,
Place red bunting on the pole  at the station
 And I shall return to you, ne'er again to roam.

However if you have found love with another,
   I shall remain on the train and will pass on by
And when I pass that barren pole, I will smother
 My anguish, my pain and my remorse till I die.

The train trip to his home took less than a day.
 On the train he told a passenger of his dreams.
Soon everyone watched for red bunting on the way
  While avoiding Bill's tears flowing like streams.

Then five miles from his station there arose a cry—
 Every one cried from the depths of their souls.
Old Bill ran to the window to learn as to why—
 He too saw red bunting on two hundred poles.
In 1972, I was invited by the government of California to visit all of their prisons and the San Quentin Penitentiary was one of the prisons I visited,

                         THE SOLIPSIST
A long time ago when the world was not too old
A man roamed its surface in search of power.
 He desired to be king of beasts and Man I'm told
  And to rule the fish and birds and tiniest flower.

  But he was rebuffed at everywhere he turned
  And subsequently was at a loss at what to do.
  His demands and overtures were  spurned
  So he ended up as a captain without a crew.

  To Man, he was pointed out in jest
  As one who would set himself up as God.
  To the beasts, he was regarded as a pest.
  Even the flowers refused to give him a nod.

  Finally in a fit of anger he condemned them all
 And commanded them to vanish before his eyes.
  Man and beast immediately answered his call
   And headed upwards into the deepening skies.

   Then the flowers and bees vanished out of sight
   Until the Earth was barren of life.
   He watched with awe at the force of his might.                                  
   His power was absolute like the point of a knife.

   All that was left was the Heavens and Earth
   And the latter went with a twitch of his nose.
   He used his power for all of its worth
   For when he can't rule—everything goes.

   A blink of his eye and Heaven was gone
   And nothing remained, not the stars or the sun.
   A void remained where the light had shone
   His anger was spent, his wishes were done.

  For eons he ruled the darkness alone
  Until boredom drove him from his mind.
  Finally he decided he must atone
  For the sin he had done to his own kind.
 He planned a new beginning with his soul
 And in his happiness he bubbled with mirth.
  For at last he had recognized his proper role,
 On the first day, he created Heaven  and Earth.

 In the summer, the insects come   

Why is it that in every summer, the insects come?
I wish they would choose to appear in the winter.
But then I suppose my proposal is pretty dumb.
But their bites are very typical of a  cinder. 

And to be sure, black flies are the worse of the lot
As we humans and other beings fear their bite.
When I was a child, my mother said, don't be caught
Outside by black flies during the day or at night.

Mosquitoes are in abundance and are equally bad
But their bite is not as bad as the bite of a black fly.
Some of them carry diseases which makes us sad
When someone is bitten and lies down to die.

Despite the above, summer is a time of great fun.
I go hiking, swimming as a happy camper.
Oh my!  I see black flies in the direction of the sun.
I will go to my cottage and hide inside my hamper. 
Did you know that the shortest poem is called FLEAS? Here it is.
  Adam had them             

In my mind, I am a poet. I know it. 

No comments: