Oh to have your plaintive voice
Interrupting our virtual meetings again.
Those expressive meows, your speech with humans,
To distract and entertain once more.
But your cuddly, soft paws
will pounce on the keyboard no more.
Your sentinel spot, standing watch o’er your human,
lies vacant.
Thou eater of cat grass,
which took a week to grow
Thou master of the bowls,
so earning the pride of human souls,
Into the night you’ve gone,
Walked on through that door—
Fare thee well, until we meet once more.
© 2021 H.K. Longmore
Author’s Note: when first I wrote Unnecessary Risk, I could have sworn I had already written a poem by that name. I didn’t find it, so went ahead with it. But I stumbled upon the first one recently, so here it is, unedited, almost exactly seven years later after I first wrote it.
The thrill of unnecessary risk
Flows through my mind quite brisk
I can hear you now saying tsk-tsk.
Into my life I fold it with a wisk.
From the height of the stairs I leap.
But the landing angle’s too deep,
So I catch the concrete, sow then reap.
My knees are grated, but my speech needs no bleep.
I roll, my “ouch” uttered, pick up my hat.
A quick check of my knees; blood does not yet mat.
I look around and find no one around —drat!
I’ll be the last on the bus, so I fly like a bat.
© 2021 H.K. Longmore
Posted in poetry
Tagged counting the cost, fall, gravity, injury, Ohio, pain, poem, poetry, risk, scar, scraped knee, unnecessary risk
Dear Google,
No, I do not wish to review the place I went hiking this evening. That’s why I ignored it the first time you asked. I don’t care if I’m in the top 20% of Park reviewers. I don’t care if I took pictures that no one else has in your prying algorithm’s eyes.
It’s my relative secret. I went to two other hiking trails, and they’ve become so popular there was no place to park. I don’t want this trail to suffer the same fate. True, the relative difficulty of the boulder scramble discourages many.
And people who aren’t familiar may lose the trail, never making it to the waterfall.
Sure, other people know about this place; it’s not a true secret. But I prefer to reserve my knowledge of it for close family and close friends, and only to impart it by hiking it with them.
So yes, I’ll review it on my WordPress blog, where it will dwindle in relative anonymity, and have little chance of blowing up. I know, this won’t help me increase my ranking above the top 20% Park reviewers. Please see above.
Happy surveilling,
Henry
Posted in commentary
Tagged Big Cottonwood Canyon, Google, hiking, reviews, Salt Lake County hikes, Wasatch Front
Apples crisp crunchy
Apples
Apples are my friend
Doctor’s bane
Totally sane
Crisp crunchy apples
Crispy crunch ’til the skin is no more
Crunchy crisp straight through to the core
I think I’ll have one more
One more
One more
One one one one more more more more
Apples
Watch out for those cyanide seeds
©2021 H.K. Longmore
Dark the night sky,
Fell, the foul zephyr.
Brackish black water
Broken by two beady eyes.
Iago has returned.
Creeping up the coast,
He seeks to insert himself
Where least welcome is his self;
They’d prefer him to roast.
He hears a patrol
Coming down the lane,
Hides among barrels of petrol;
They’ll not have his mane.
The patrol stops,
Blocking his intended path.
To avoid the cops
He’ll have to subdue his wrath,
And take an alternate route.
Sneaking down a back alley,
He has no time to dally;
When bright lights remove all doubt:
He’s been followed.
Spinning ’round,
He sees the patrol closed in behind;
In front lie the hounds,
He sees he is confined.
“Welcome to my table,”
Greets the queen,
Gesturing to that of fable,
Round and now white and green.
Ambushed.
At the Siege Perilous,
Sits formidable foe:
Sir Galahad looks ready to row.
Iago takes a seat, voice querulous.
“At this table, all you have to say is heard by all,”
the queen instructs.
Iago’s face falls:
This rule his scheming obstructs.
“You are now cursed to always meet at this table,
Every time you set foot upon our shores.
Think not that you are able
To remove this curse from your core.”
His vitriol laid bare,
He tells the reasons
For despair;
But it’s not his season.
“So you have naught but speculation
To lay before this confabulation?
Each of your points in turn countered?”
The queen sees his plan has foundered.
“Then you are dismissed,
Thank your for your time.
Now back into the brine,
Return to the abyss.
You’ll not be missed.”
©2021 H.K. Longmore
Posted in poetry
Tagged bliss and glad life, cathartic, iago, othello, poem, relationships
Lucy Goose on the loose,
Chasing mother and her deuce.
Mother picks up twins,
Determined goose will not win.
Goose gives chase.
Mother picks up her pace.
Gaggle left behind,
Lucy continues chase unkind.
Mother tires with her load,
Sees what could unfold;
Sets down upon the grass
Each sweet and darling lass.
Turns about to confront
Lucy Goose’s cold affront.
No longer on the run,
Mother with goose is done.
Instinct ignites:
Lucy Goose will get a fight.
Verbal sparring first begins;
Sufficient scare: mother wins.
©2021 H.K. Longmore
Posted in poetry
Tagged based on a true story, children, goose, goose attack, mother, poem, protective instinct
Wounded, I limp back from the shore
Where Iago and I dueled a week before.
Though I see no scabs nor scars,
Infection festers under my skin.
Simple suggestion,
Not banshee wail,
Was his effective weapon.
What cure is there for my ail?
I sought an answer from the sea,
But there was no reply.
I requested knowledge
From the rolling hills,
An answer faint
Floated away on the breeze.
The city streets I pounded,
Pleading for release,
But it was temporary,
Ill effects of Iago’s dart,
Wolf pack of lies
Still closing in around my heart.
There are labors to perform,
So I gather my strength;
Wounds mention but not at length,
Mostly I ignore.
Floating o’er the ether,
Slipping through the speakers,
Dulcet sounds envelop the space.
No siren song luring away,
No piper’s call to come and play;
No healing light in which to bathe.
Naught but work and banter.
Yet it’s what I needed,
It seeps inside;
Finds the wolves,
Turns the tide.
I’m ninety percent there
But the day is done;
I try again the city streets.
Still no cure, but I quicken my pace.
Almost home, bits become current,
Current transduced into a familiar song;
Strength taken from the bridge:
But if you’ve got the angst or you’ve got the ardor
Blues Traveler, Stand
You might faint from the fight but you’re gonna find it
For every challenge could have paradise behind it
Elation finds me
And takes away
The remaining tinge;
My skin feels whole again.
© 2021 H.K. Longmore
Posted in poetry
Tagged bliss and glad life, cathartic, iago, othello, poem, relationships
I don’t need a friend turned foe
To spoil my peace of mind.
I have my own Iago
Residing inline.
Over analysis
Takes all that is fine,
Turns it to paralysis
Or removes the spine.
A message viewed,
Then changed just one line,
Becomes a mental feud,
Of relationship fey a sign.
“Especially on days like today,”
Gone from the vine,
Iago says, “You overstayed,
You should just resign.
“Ignore the compliment that still is,
Without that last bit, it’s in decline.”
And with these words of his,
I carve apart some writing time.
Put pen to paper,
Fingers on home row align,
Turn to vapor!
This foul cancer turn benign.
What was skimmed
Weakened the line,
‘Tis why she trimmed:
For a better shine.
Parry, thrust, stab, and slash,
Make Iago withdraw into the brine.
Final push, and with a splash!
Iago’s gone—until next time.
© 2021 H.K. Longmore
Author’s note: I wanted to end this on a positive note, but TBH, Iago will be back. I’ll have to do a part 2 sometime; maybe that will have a happier ending?
Posted in poetry
Tagged bliss and glad life, cathartic, iago, othello, poem, relationships
Message wishing well
Remained without reply.
There could be a hundred reasons why,
But only time will tell
Which holds and which are pared away:
Sunny day, she went out to play.
Hearing a bell,
Afraid of for whom it tolls,
She hid beneath a stack of bed rolls.
Still unwell,
Too sick to move,
Too far removed from her daily groove.
Flames to quell,
House now ash,
Batteries drained too fast.
Riding atop a tiger through a dell,
Durga at her side,
She went into the fray and died.
Boarding, she fell;
Now wearing a cone,
Paramedics lost her phone.
Sulphur smell,
Evacuated in haste;
Neighborhood in natural gas encased.
Going through hell,
No desire to talk,
At communication balks.
Overdosed on kale,
Her face turned pale then blue,
The Heimlich no one knew.
Heard a cowbell
On a mountain side,
In pursuit still, ’tis why she hadn’t replied.
The story Occam’s razor sells:
Far less glamorous,
Nothing cadaverous;
Internet is unwell,
Or notifications don’t show
Due to settings overflow.
© 2021 H.K. Longmore
Posted in poetry
Tagged bliss and glad life, cathartic, communication, poem, the poem she thought he wrote
| Unnecessary Risk: Th… on Unnecessary Risk | |
 | Henry Longmore on In Passing |
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| Henry Longmore on Nothing to Say |
 | William on Nothing to Say |
Musings of a Kunderian Monster 
The Impact of Therapy on Creative Writing
I often write poetry as a form of therapy. But, I have found in recent months that, some events or feelings for which I would have written a poem, instead I have made a note of it, under a heading “to bring up with my therapist.”
It need not be this way. Longer ago, further back, I would write the poem, and then discuss the poem with my therapist.
One such event that I took to therapy without writing a poem happened at the end of October, after a concert I performed in, involving the delay my brain sometimes has in processing inputs. I talked about it with my therapist at my next therapy session. But as a result, there’s no poem. I’m going to rectify that soon, and will add the link when I do.
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Posted in commentary, journal
Tagged cathartic, communication, therapy