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Jackie R. Kays
http://jackiekays.purpledream.com |
Thanksgiving Is Over
12/06/03
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It's quiet here today.
Thanksgiving has come and gone its away.
The winter sky are gloomy and gray,
snowflakes are expected this evening
in an amount that will surely stay.
My Grandson has returned to the praises
of Oklahoma. School you know, he must go.
Work calls our daughter and son in law.
There's a lonely silence in this house,
the barking of my Grandson's little black
dog, he calls; "Midnight" is missed by my
wife and I.
My son and his wife are gone too,
business called them away.
I don't think they knew it
was suppose to snow today.
Blackie, our cat, he's been acting funny,
I think he misses everyone in his cat way.
My wife is decorating as small Christmas tree,
I'm sitting here with a stomachache,
too much turkey and cake.
Christmas is on it way,
and then we'll all be
happily together again
on that wonderful holiday.
More Turkey and cake.
and probable another stomachache.
But that's okay, I can't wait!
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The Day The Poetry Stopped
01/25/04 |
The day the poetry stopped.
All the people listen, but
no longer the rhymes flowed.
The old poet sang his last
song of poetry from his
dying soul.
Only to be heard again,
when others recite.
That's the faith of the dead
poet and his poetry rhymes
born in the middle of the
waking night.
Strange as it may seem,
his soul smiles with
shunning gleam.
For now his poetry is recited
beyond his wildest dreams.
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The Battlefield
04/24/04 |
As the broiling bronze sphere
rises high in the turquoise sky,
circling black scavengers wing
on winds of high.
The smell of blood and carnage
inflames their nostril beaks as
their prey lie dead or dying on
the desert floor so surreal and bleak.
The blood curdling cries of the
black wing vultures echo over
the now silent battlefield where
the reeking bodies lie.
The battle is over and the victors
have gathered their wounded and
dead as the vanquished silently
await their fate flying high over head.
A gruesome scene to behold
as death takes its bloody toll.
An eerie silence prevails over
the battlefield as the victors
march silently off in their
triumphant victory so bold.
Losers lose and winners win,
and that's the rules regardless
of their warring sin.
As long as there's wars there
will be warriors to fight and
die and the count will forever
be too high.
The birds of prey will continue
through the centuries to survive
in this hideous way.
And the continuity of death will
provide for these feather beast
on battlefields of upheaval,
in a life and death struggle
for causes of good and evil.
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That Old Dilapidated Barn
05/10/04 |
Have you seen it lately?
That old dilapidated barn that
stood along that winding gravel
road when you were a kid.
That old barn that years before
was painted bright red, but when
you played there it was weather
gray and no longer house the
summer hay. It leans a little
more each passing day.
You use to romp and play
in its loft with your closes
friend Billy Joe-
Cowboys, Indians and
pirates too and secret
places only you and he
would know.
Now all these years have passed,
and Bill Joe never came home
from that far away Asian shore,
and no one plays in that old
dilapidated barn anymore.
The other day after all this time,
I drove down that old gravel road
and low and behold there still standing
was that old dilapidated barn, many
boards were missing and its giant doors
were gone but within those dilapidated
walls my childhood memories still
live on.
Those were days of wonderment.
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Where Ever You Are
09/14/04 |
For a life time, I have loved you from afar,
and even though to this day, I know not
where you are.
We went our separate ways at a very young and
tender age. The paths of our lives have never again crossed,
but those days of long,
long ago when we promised that our love would live forever and a day.
Those words have become so precious to my broken heart.
Each and every day, I search
the crowed streets in hope that
I'll see your smiling grace and
hoping you might recognize my
aging face.
In my dreams I still see you...
back, back in time when we ran
hand in hand and wrote lover
letters in that sugar white sand.
After all these lonely years,
our initials still remain carved
on the trunk of that old oak tree.
Our love was as sweet as cherry
wine and ran so true and so free.
Then the winds of war took me
away... you were young and couldn't
wait for the promise of
our love forever and a day.
Oh! If only we could capture time
in a bottle but time is just dust
in the wind, here now and gone
tomorrow and life goes on...
I often wonder if you ever
look for me in the crowds,
the subways or on the busy
city streets.
I can still see you standing there,
dressed in white Spanish lace,
your auburn hair flowing down
your back to your tiny waist.
If we never meet again, my aching
heart will surly shatter, brake
and never mend.
I wish you happiness, I wish you success,
and most of all... I wish you love.
And may the sun always shine on your
side of the street, and someday by
chance, on a crowed street may our
eyes in a passing glance once
again meet.
Where ever you are...
No matter how far,
I send you my unwavering
love on the morning star.
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The Orphan's Little Black Box
10/04/04 |
Childhood secrets,
locked in the little black box,
forever stored in the corner
of his young mind.
Never to be opened,
never to be revealed,
for all times.
Contents of;
sadness, fears, brutality,
loneliness, anguish
and childhood tears.
No mother, father, brothers or
sisters to care, to share, to
love him are even comb his
curly blond hair.
No picnics in the park,
no fishing in the pond,
no red wagon, bicycle
and no family bond.
No candles on a birthday
cake, no cookies for him
did they bake. No love,
no hugs or kisses for his sake.
No Christmas lights, no flying kites.
No time for childish games and year
after year, everything seem to stay
the same.
But time did pass and he escaped at last.
He placed his childhood memories into
that little black box and threw away the
key, but some how from time to time in
the dark of night he finds that long lost key,
and the contents...
will forever haunts his reverie.
My childhood from 1933 to 1950
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Love, Wine And Roses
10/21/04 |
Fate brought us together,
in love, marriage and language
forever to be.
Ma Cherie, je vous aime avec tout mon coeur!
(My Darling, I love you with all my heart!)
That, anyone can see.
Fifty three years it will soon be.
Every waking moment of every hour,
every hour of everyday and years in all,
a celebration of my love, I sent to you
on the wings of a snow white dove.
Those years spent in your homeland
were sweet as wine and roses.
Enchanting candlelight dinners
in a quaint cafe on the sidewalk
of the Champs Elysees.
Holiday on the reviera,
weekends spent browsing
the sight and sounds
of Paris, and the river Seine
in the warm summer rain.
These are memories my love,
of a time in our hearts that will
stand still until death do us part.
Je't'aime pour toujours!
I'll Love You Forever!
And forever la vie en rose.
Dedicated to Rolande, my darling wife of 52 years.
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Mother's Garden
11/14/04 |
Happy were the sound coming from the
little white house on Walnut street where
a small boy of five played in the back yard,
near his mother's beautiful flower garden
so clean and neat.
Roses of red, daffodils tall and true, colorful
gladiolus too. Morning glories, red, white and blue
growing on the garden gate, and spotted wing butterflies
fluttered from one flower to another. Little did he
know of his life long fate.
The sand in the hour glass quickly passed and
here he stands with all those years gone so fast.
Here on Walnut street in front of that old house,
no longer white, but a dirty weathered gray.
Windows broken and nothing seem to have survived
from those childhood days. Where sixty two years
ago he remembered that beautiful garden in the back
yard were he played as a boy of five.
He walks around the house to the back, where
his mother's beautiful garden once grew,
but only tall ugly brown weeds came into his view.
He tried to remember his mother's beautiful
garden, that all those years ago he once had known,
but now only tall weed have grown.
He shuts his eyes and imagines that he is only five,
and low and behold...there were Red roses, daffodils
tall and true, gladiolus too. Morning glories red,
white and blue growing on the garden gate and
kneeling in this beautiful garden was his
mother in here tender loving grace and once
again for the first time in sixty five years...
he could remember her beautiful smiling face.
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The Forgotten Warrior
12/04/04 |
It's the dead of night, he can
hear that lonely whistle echoing
from that distant freight train blowing.
A white cloak is shuttled in by the
icy northern winds, and covering
everything but humanities sins.
Shivering, teeth chattering as he tries
unsuccessfully to close the flapping,
wet cardboard box lid.
His makeshift home under this
old wooden trestle bridge,
trying to stay warm and hidden.
He pulls the tattered, hole infested, olive drab
blanket up around him and painfully groans,
but to no avail. The chill is in his bones.
In the pocket of that old fatigue jacket rest the medal
now tarnished, scared and forgotten by all, but once
upon a time...
Oh! How it did shine.
He takes one last sip from that bottle of
grape delight. While his thoughts drift back
to the good times when his life was young
and bright.
To the love of his new born child and the
warmth of his young wife. Those were the days
before he returned from the jungle fight of his life.
Death, destruction, fear, anger and life long despair.
A war in which nothing that he would ever experience
could compare and the ghosts of his past haunt his
every waking moment, it's more than anyone should
have to bear.
Hours have passed, the temperature has quickly
dropped below zero, and the white ghost of winter
has in-tombed this fall hero.
His pitiful shivering has slowly stopped, the pain
and suffering fades away as he releases his grip on
the bottle of courage and slowly falls into...
eternal sleep.
Now... thirty five years later, this worrior's
ghostly despair...
never again will he have to bear.
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