Tag Archives: introspection

The Anonymous Burden

If you determine in your heart
To carry out an anonymous act
Designed to bring happiness
Or a smile to the recipient,

You must be prepared for the part:
Fully accept the burden of facts
Known to you and God—and security cameras—the madness
Of the temptation to tell, to take credit, your new companions persistent.

If you would walk the unidentified way,
You must quench the thirst for recognition,
Bury deep the desire to reap rewards; in sadness,
Leave not fully formed the hunger incipient.

When others comment, your tongue you’ll stay.
For leaving no clues you’d better have a knack;
Wipe that smile off your face at their gladness.
And it’s best to not write about what you’ve brought to fruition.

© 2014 H.K. Longmore

Taciturn Turn

My taciturn trait
Love of conversation stole;
Kissed the blarney stone.

But not so of late—
A taciturn turn I took.
Resumed quiet look.

Speak when spoken to—
Unspoken words fill my mind;
Keep comments inside.

No tragic event
Stole from me the gift of gab;
I just grew weary:

Content to listen
To banter between two friends,
Clenched jaw hides my tongue.

A banter party
To which I’m not invited;
Tired of butting in.

Copyright © 2014 H.K. Longmore

Three Misses

Soaking wet

Leaving work one day I took my AWD vehicle through a patch of snow that wasn’t plowed. The magnitude of my velocity vector was too small, inspiring the second stanza. My pants and gloves got soaked trying to dig the snow out from underneath.

Was it this word,
Or that, that she said?
“Life” he thought he heard,
But ’twas spoken while she fed;
“Mouth” is thus not absurd.
Misheard.

It will not budge;
His car is stuck.
The ice-crusted snow it can only nudge.
Did he think he drove a truck?
Must he now homeward trudge?
Misjudged.

For words overheard in passing he could
Seek meaning, though lacking context.
Alternate possibilities, weight of wood,
He might settle on the wrong text.
The comment made, was it for the good?
Misunderstood.

Copyright © 2014. H.K. Longmore

The Spoon, the Bull, and the Pickaxe

If you're installing a sink, and you have to do this to get the pipes to connect, try another way. That way, those coming after you won't curse your unknown name.

If you’re installing a sink, and you have to do this to get the pipes to connect, try another way. That way, those coming after you won’t curse your unknown name.

A small metal spoon slipped silently,
Submerged beneath the suds,
Into the dark abyss of the insinkerator,
Preventing progress
Of waste: from a garlic press,
Or catered scraps of ‘tater;
From recipes now deemed duds
As the baker sighs gently.

The proverbial china shop
Guards against the bull.
Upon learning of his coming,
The owner clears all his stocks.
But his plan the bull mocks;
His hooves, incessant drumming
With which he breaks societal rule.
Now comes the owner’s son, armed with mop.

A pickaxe-wielding ‘niner,
I strike my core and rock the spike:
Am I ever the bull,
Or am I at times the spoon?
Do I stop the disposer’s tune,
Or as a bull—as a fool—
Do I others psyche,
Yet think I am the china?

Copyright © 2013 H.K. Longmore

Three Short Strands

One

Every time I do, I’m glad I did.
Every time I don’t, with myself I’m livid.
Perhaps someday my gladness I’ll learn
To follow instead of letting my stomach churn.

Two

One winter night
On her memory a blight:
Seized as I stood;
The result would not be good.

Pulled from a fall,
I turned to see gall:
Certain it was my choice,
To sorrow her feet gave voice.

Three

Over the edge he leans,
The river’s eyes gleam.
He tries to let it run through,
To bid its warm touch welcome,
But fears what he’d become
If nothing grew.

Copyright © 2013 H.K. Longmore

Cathartic Ventures

The whistle of a teapot
As the painter adds another spot.
The spillway with water flows
As the writer pens some prose.

Steam exudes from the dryer vent
While the poet works out what he meant
And what he said from what he intended,
For fear the meaning was upended.

But tonight well after dark,
This guy, he was a madman in the park:
Singing at the top of his lungs,
A full concert was sung.

He sang some old favorites, some new
In full pursuit of cathartic stew.
Twenty songs later, he left for home
Solely because his smartphone battery groaned.

Copyright © 2013 H.K. Longmore

Mid-afternoon Stroll on a Late Summer Day

Water and dust—
Sky feathers—streaking
White on blue;
Passing green grass
As I walk, of you
Fondly thinking,
If know you must.

Quiet chirps
Can be heard
From a hundred birds
In the green-leafed trees,
Fluttering on the breeze
Plumage black-purple:

Their cries sonic
My private thoughts
Can’t penetrate
Beyond membrane tympanic
While visions of you are brought
Below my pate to resonate.

Copyright © 2013 H.K. Longmore

Power Struggle

Think not about Watts,
Not Joules over time,
Nor strength of rhyme
Cast from thought scheming plots.

Not one of delta-delta or wye-wye,
Nor yet of turbine against hydro-flow,Lightning
Nor Quixotic blades by air or lance
Made to do their circular dance.

This struggle is with powers on high;
And powers here below;
Powers of the mortal mind
And powers of human heart.

The struggle brings him to his knees;
Too proud to kneel, he cannot Heaven please.
A power granted once to another
Now his heart smothers—

Power granted was not announced,
Lest upon the opportunity the recipient pounce
And his heart—as the moment flounced,
And his mind seized up by the jounce—
Fail him.

Power over his heart was given,
Not the power to make it riven
Nor the power to with others be shriven,
But towards unity be thriven.

But the power unannounced remains
With the giver, unclaimed,
While under its weight he strains,
And to proclaim itself the power does not deign.

Awaiting resolution from inside or out,
He finds his words lose clout
And the unspoken is not kind.
Fear of losing dear ones makes him start—
He seeks someone to hear his pleas
Again, the struggle brings him to his knees.

Copyright © 2013 H.K. Longmore

Why At-One-Ment Doesn’t Involve Time Travel

Have you ever longed to go back in time and change just one choice so a life event would turn out differently, or a relationship could be preserved or never started?  I have certainly had wistful thoughts along those lines.  No, I lie.  I do still have wistful thoughts like that from time to time.  I went hiking a couple of weeks ago with some of my family.  My sister had spent three summers working at a camp in the area, and took the lead.  We headed toward that camp, then down a dirt road toward the trail head.  We passed a small stream flowing down the mountain and she remarked that the old trail went up the stream, but people kept littering in the (watershed) stream, so the trail was moved, and the old trail blocked off.  A little further down the road, and she indicated for us to turn off the road and head up the hill.  In the winter, this hill is part of a ski trail; in summer, it is covered with wildflowers.  My sister pointed them out, acting the part of trail guide.  Up the hill we continued, until we reached a spot where there was a spur of trail running to the stream.  My sister was wishing we could go up the old trail, so I told the others I was going to explore the branch, no one had to follow, and I would come back and let them know what I found.  My sister said to make sure it went up and not over, because over would lead into the camp.

The branch lead me across the stream.  A short distance further I found another spur that lead up the hill.  I took it a short distance to see where it led, then returned and informed the others of what I had found.  We headed that way.  The spur going up took me back across the stream not far from where I initially crossed.  I waited there to help my nieces and nephews find the best path across if needed.  While we were crossing, my sister had gone a bit further from the spur and found yet another path that led up.  She instructed that we needed to go up that way, so we all headed over. Continue reading

The webs we weave

Photo-0067

This picture was taken on a day when, after a late afternoon appointment at the doctor’s office, I said, “Nope, I’m not going back to work today.”

In my FB activity feed, I saw a friend had commented on a “photo”, you know, the kind that is really just a bunch of text someone slapped onto a background with Paint or Photoshop or Gimp… and now they’ve shared it on FB. The text said:

Do you ever just wake up and go “NOPE” …and roll over and go back to sleep?

My friend commented “everyday”. The page/user was named “Forget love forever alone”, but using a crude and distasteful four letter word in place of “forget”. I’d like to think this friend just didn’t happen to notice the name, that if they had they wouldn’t have felt compelled to continue, but it makes me wonder…

Do you ever comment on a photo/link/status/etc., and not realize that you’ve just associated yourself with something crass?

[A note to my readers and followers: Before you decide to stop reading or unfollow me because you think I’m a prude or naïve, know that I have said my share of those crass, crude, and distasteful words, both softly and yelled with venom; I have also chosen to leave them behind.]

“But of bliss and glad life…”

Last night I was pondering recent happenings in my life, which included what could have been déjà vu if only it weren’t clearly a separate and distinct occurrence.  I came to a conclusion that should be fairly obvious, but it took two data points, and several years transpired before I acquired the second.  When I am passing by or walking away from someone, feeling hurt or slighted but doing my best to bury the pain, and in my mind I tell them where they can go or I visualize the synapses of my brain firing such that all my phalanges form a fist but for one finger, it is a sure sign that my relationship with that person, whatever that relationship may be, is in peril.  And thus applies this quote:

“But of bliss and glad life there is little to be said, before it ends; as works fair and wonderful, while still they endure for eyes to see, are their own record, and only when they are in peril or broken for ever do they pass into song.” – JRR Tolkien, The Silmarillion

Which is great from the perspective of me being able to write some potentially great poetry.  But if I could choose between the relationship being “in peril or broken forever” versus never writing a good poem about that relationship or that person, I’d choose the latter.

A corollary to this conclusion is that at such times, I should probably just let myself feel the pain and stop trying to numb it by the commands I mentally issue to the other person.  Otherwise I start a downward spiral that, if not quickly corrected, spills over into other relationships.