SOME POETRY

SOME POETRY

1. Religious

MEDITATION

“All deities reside in the human breast.”     – William Blake

Ascend to God? Why, know you not that He

Knows neither up and down, nor east and west,

Nor time enslaves Him in its bonds, but free

He is of them? Yet they who know Him best

Search not the heavens, nor in Nature find,

Nor hear melodies that skirt the wind

Proclaiming forth His presence to mankind.

Rather, inward turn and inward send

Their searching thoughts, and there approach His throne:

In earthly flesh He builds His heavenly home.

Seek far, seek up, seek out with vain intent—

The presence of the Lord is inward sent;

For all creation sings the heavenly hymn

If God’s throne is set up deep within.

PROOF

“For the invisible things of him from the creation of the world are clearly seen….”

– Romans 1: 20

The foolishness of Christ for now aside,

The evidence of God does still abide

As earnest in my soul, apart from all

That Bible, book, or creed of Man does call.

As stamp impressed upon a lump of clay

When baked does mark the seal to all, that says,

“With this proof I here have deigned to give,

Know that I rule alone, I AM, I live,”

So All-There ruling God, forevermore,

Eternally, impressed His ancient lore

In bibles, yes, but human hearts the more.

A MEDITATION

“. . .  the times of refreshing shall come from the presence of the Lord.”     –  Acts 3: 19

In deeping time I turn my fevered mind

To other thoughts – of sparkling cool eternal love –

And wander peaceful paths, where there I find

The meaning of the mystery that moves

The universe, that also stirs my soul.

This quiet beauty, verdant Spring, it proves

In still communion that I, a part, the whole

Do figure in as key piece to a puzzle

(For so we all are key piece, if we behold

It so.) No whipping Master puts a muzzle,

Reined, and ripping at our straining neck-cords,

On our faces, and thus with whimsy dictates

Our every move and all our secret words.

This we rebel, and God Himself this hates.

THE CORPORATE MIDDLE MANAGER SUBMITS HIS REQUEST TO GOD

To our Universal CEO:

Having come to my attention

That it has come to your attention

That there are areas

That need improvement

In my job here on earth….

In response to your communication

An assessment instrument was employed

To match the goals with the degree

To which my life’s objectives

Have not been reached.

Hereby a presentation is made

With an action plan.

As is known, job performance has been lacking lately.

Falling short of goals, targets not met.

Research is inconclusive—data hard to get—

Yet it appears to me

That failure to achieve goals

Has been mostly unconscious,

Not so much committing as omitting,

Not so much wrongdoing as not doing,

Or undoing.

Staying on track with expectations

Has been the area of fault.

Searching Corporate’s Decalogue,

The Ten Rules of Effective Life Management,

It has been found that failure to apply three Rules—

Three, Five, and Ten—

Is the extent of the fault.

The Action Plan herewith offered,

Forbearance and patience are requested.

Awaiting the favor of a reply—

A Middle Manager.

                       2. Other Poetry

I HAIKU IN CLASS. DO YOU?

FOUR HAIKU WRITTEN DURING A LINGUISTICS EXAM

Exam No. 1, No. 1

Exam number one--

a gauge with numbers and dials,

measuring knowledge.

Exam No. 1, No. 2

These English students--

squirrels gnawing at their nuts,

busy and intent.

Institutional Envelope

This envelope sleeps,

a casket for a missive 

that died on sending.

For My Wife

My mind's gallery:

Your portrait hangs in the hall,

The show's centerpiece.

 THE FINAL EXAM

He has twisted off his mind’s tight gas cap,

Inserted funnel, poured in Final Facts.

He runs near E, he always runs near E.

And always short on cash, a quarter tank

Is all he feels he can afford each “fillup.”

………

His knowledge tank needle falls below E,

As turning the test’s first two paper sheets,

He finds four more. His knowledge tank dries up

When he presses pedal to the floor.

He sputters to a halt, coughs, shudders, and dies.

This trip is shorter than he’d hoped.

READER RESPONSE DAY IN ENGLISH 101

Silent they sit,

Reading and writing,

Filling out forms,

Responding to writers,

Intent on their tasks—

Improving the efforts

Of wayward wordsmiths.

Busy as beavers,

Acting as experts,

Finding the focus,

Rating the writing,

So all will make A’s.

Was it time well-spent?

Did they do it right?

Though hopes are high—

Theirs, not mine—

They miss the mark,

Too nice to niggle,

Ignorant to instruct.

But when it’s ended,

When it’s said and seen to,

Dealt with and done,

We will have had

Reader Response Day

In College Comp I.

IN THE EYE OF THE LEAF DEVIL

Lost in thought that bright and glorious fall day,

I leave my work and walk across the lawn.

My eyes lift off the ground to see

A strange sight, a serendipity.

They spiral high, they rise –

Three dozen or more dry gum-tree leaves

They swirl, they twirl, they dance aloft on high.

No sound making but the crink

Of brushed-by leaf-skin on leaf-skin.

A column, clear, tracks slow on an errant path

Across the browning autumn lawn.

A vortex, spinning wind and crazy leaves,

Sucking up what loosely lies upon the lawn,

A natural Hoover, carpet cleaning.

Leaves rise crazy high in the post-noon sky

High, high in that clear blue sky.

How high this column climbs I cannot know–

Twenty feet, forty, a hundred or more?

Brave to break my stricken awe,

I march forward, step into that whirling riot,

Whipped about by leaves like gnats

Hair sucked up, pulled on end,

Rush of air through hair on arms,

Tingling spine and crawling on my neck’s nape.

May I not be torn aloft by tornado,

But this, the weaker cousin, shows me,

Gently, what’s at work with twisters.

And so I raise my arms and close my eyes,

A crucifix in the swirl of whirling wind.

A moral moment? An epiphany?

An alternate reality?

A certain serendipity

Whose import is made more plain to me

Some distant days ahead?

I leave the eye of that dustless dust devil

And pause to watch its passing over soft golden grass

To cross the asphalt hardness of the street.

Those leaves still ride the carousel of wind,

They merry-go-round,

Climb higher in that clear column.

This leaf-devil wends away from me

And my thoughts return to this dull world

To muse on Nature’s serendipity

And learn the godly lesson this devil taught to me.

A BRIEF VISIT, 1924

All that remains of you, old man,

Is a black/white photo from about 1924,

Squinting in the sun, 

Sporty fedora in gloved left hand,

Right foot on the running board

Of a rag-top truck, balloon-tired,

Light overcoat over dark suit and

Wearing a tie,

Looking quite dapper. 

The head of your foresaken wife's shadow

Bites your heel. 

She caught you in this photo – 

Indeed, the only way she could catch you –

As you were in life, ready to run, leave behind your wife,

With two little girls, for your other life

Where she – and they – were not wanted.

“OK,” you said, “if you want to remember

My handsome looks, perhaps for the lawyer,

Here I am, hat in hand,

But not for long. Now leave me alone.”

And so you left, forever, for good.

And what you left behind were a spurned wife

And two little girls, one a toddler and a newborn other.

The latter my aunt, the former my mother.

To another life you went, to another wife you went,

The next one apparently better than the first.

This lone photo is all that remains of you

In this family….

[To Tim Banks;]

On the Art of Psyching Out

A Fable

Once upon a time there was

A hill under the sky,

And at its top there came to rest

A blue- and a green-bottle fly.

The Blue-bottle fly said to the Green,

As he spun out his net,

“I make you see what I seem,

That and only that.

For instance, as I weave this web—

An imaginary map—

If you should move just a step

I’ve got you in my trap.”

“Ah,” said the Green, “you must think

My mind a piece of clay,

That you can mold it to anything

That you please to say.”

“So you tell me that you see

In all things Truth—the Straight?

And thus it just appears to be

That my legs are eight?

Count them—do you see but six?

Though I should say they’re eight?

Come now, you can see through tricks,

You can tell things straight.

And this strand I wrap you in

You know’s not truly there—

You may feel tightness on your limbs,

But it’s really only air?”

The Green-bottle fly is filled with doubt

As he totals up the legs;

And he labors to get himself out,

And now in fear he begs:

“You, you are a spider—you are no fly,

And I—I am doomed.”

His foe raised up his legs on high,

And his Fate much nearer loomed.

But as Blue dove down for the bite

He earned by trickery,

He sliced instead but through the “cords,”

And gave Green his liberty.

With a shriek of thankful glee

The Green-bottle fly, he fled,

Praising the Fates for freeing him

From out the mouth of Death.

The Blue-bottle fly, with legs of six,

A little tune he sung,

As he settled down ALONE, the king

Of a little mound of dung.

—Dale  W. Simpson

March 11, 1978

[transcribed on March 11, 2021, 43 years later]

3. HIGH SCHOOL ERA POEMS

THE SPIDER

Hail to thee, o little spider!

See that girl? Hang down and bite her!

She is mean, but do not fear.

She knows not that you are near.

I loved her, but she loved Bobby,

Ken, Sam, Bill, Ron, and Robby.

What chance had I, o little spider?

Won’t you please hang down and bite her?

The deed is done, o little spider.

At last you did hang down and bite her.

But she’s so still, o spider so little.

How could I know you were a black widow?

JOHNNY BE GOOD

Johnny is a good boy,

a good boy strong and true.

And everything that bad boys do,

Johnny doesn’t do.

Johnny goes to school,

he studies hard all day.

We bad boys know nothing,

but he has much to say.

Johnny minds his parents,

he never throws a fit.

We bad boys get spanked all day,

but he’s never once been hit.

Johnny cleans his room,

he makes it nice and clean.

Johnny always has been good,

he’s never once been mean.

Oh, that Johnny is so spotless,

he is so clean and nice,

I’ve seen my folks sigh over him,

they think he’s Jesus Christ!

That’s what was said about him,

up until today.

Things have changed around here

since ol’ Johnny passed away.

‘Cause we bad boys got together,

and so, what the heck?

Now everybody’s happy

since we broke ol’ Johnny’s neck!

THE GOOD KID

The kiddies in my neighborhood are very, very bad.

Because of what they do, it makes me very sad.

My mommy tells me, “Stay in, for out you cannot go.”

I cry and scream and rave, but it doesn’t help me though.

The kiddies fight and steal, and write dirty words on walls.
They cheat, they lie, kick teachers, cuss up and down the halls.

My daddy warns me and makes me stay inside.

“If you run around with them, young man, I’ll really tan your hide!”

So I stayed a good kid, until late last night,

When mommy and daddy and me got in a great big fight.

And on to bed they went, lay down then to retire.

And after they had gone to sleep, I started up a fire.

And out the house I ran and watched the flames rise high.

But when the neighbors came outside, I then began to cry,

“My mommy and daddy are caught inside!” I acted as best I could.

But turned away to smile, while watching the burning wood.

So now I play outside every single day.

And when I ask my aunt to go, she says, “Yes, you may!”

And she is proud of me as she sets me on her knee,

And says she wishes other kids

were just as good as me.

T.P.

It’s nice and gentle to your rear;

It keeps it from a great big smear.

If you’re not careful, it will rip,

And through it your hand will slip.

So take care with it, and then

You will love your new Charmin.

4. Mature Poetry

TWO SHIPS PASSING IN THE NIGHT….

[in the voice of the narrator]

I saw him come, but then then too late

To make my path some other way,

And as our distance closed in time

I fumbled for some word to say.

And now he’s only five feet off

And now before he passes by

I plant a smile upon my face.

My voice is shaking, and I say “Hi!”

He looks into my face with eyes

Which, aged though young, have seen my state,

And scans my soul with just that glance,

And concludes that look with hate.

And so he’s passed without one word,

While my mind screams out this yell,

Although my mouth, for fear, stays put:

“Why, that nigger can go to hell!”

THE HALL OF THE SUNS

The graced the galaxies

Whose stars bowed down to them.

And start to distant star

A hop-scotch game they played.

Their race was spread across the vast expanse,

It was their attempt to span the universe.

As eons and ages flashed on by,

There always came news 

Of another victory

Countless light years away.

A little planet

Whose roar the universe heard,

Listened to, and laughed.

Men with wander-lust disease

Whose goal it was to conquer worlds

And leave their seed to grow anew.

Whose goal it was to own all worlds

Within the universe.

If that can be bounded.

In the Hall of the Suns

Great heroes of battle

Brought trophies and received in kind

From their war-lord rulers,

And always arose a tumultuous shout

“Great is our world, and ruler of all

Whom none can surpass in all of the universe.”

And countless thousands of times

Throughout generations

For thousands of years

The news was received

Of another world conquest

And great was the shouting

And proud celebration

And many did covet

The chance to be One 

Of the conquering Heroes

Of light-year space travel.

The ships were sent out

On missions of conquest,

Patrolling the Vastness

For new worlds to conquer

Far ages of time from their homeland.

And chasing down worlds 

More distant that the last

Always one more out farther in star-land

Till home was but a fading memory.

As time passed by for the homeland dwellers

Changes were wrought most gradually on

Till family and friends had faded to dust

Not to be seen by their wandering sons

Ever again.

Generations passed the ward-lording pride

If nothing else; while philosophers died.

And always a returning ship with good news—

Though centuries removed from the present world

Was greeted by cheers of triumph

And presentations in the Hall of Suns

Until that great edifice held no room

For more trophies and specimens of worlds uncounted.

And such was the grandeur this planet had known.

……………………………………………………

In course of their wanderings through endless space,

And farthest removed from homeland and people

They met their match, a shadowy planet,

And lost for once a battle in space.

And not just a battle, for fierce was the foe

That sought and destroyed from planet to planet

The once haughty warriors who stood tall and fell.

That soon the boundaries of space had subsided

And beaten far back from world after world

The war-lords’ fine spaceships met fiery destruction

As nothing they had could forestall their foes.

And soon their race disappeared from the planets

And soon the planets they held were now lost.

And soon the battle raged near to the homeland

As warships dispatched were lost in the battles.

The fighting was fiercest in the skies of their own planet

As death and destruction and doom descended.

And there in the Hall of Suns was the ending 

Where once haughty war-lords now begged on their knees

To salvage their home-world, at least, of them all

While the vanquishers stood in their shadowed clothing

Mysterious men holding doom in their hands

That broke a race of people, destroying their empire

And now spoke their mandate on that fateful of days,

In the Hall of the Suns,

“You never again shall go forth from your planet

Not even for reasons scientific in nature

And this shall be under pain of destruction

Of your little world and all that is left,

For we live in peace on our world far away

And expect the universe to grow naturally.

And never again will the cancer of conquest

Upset the balance that is set in the vastness,

For when the first sign that you have gone forth 

Is received to us, then we will return

And end your wretched, lusting race,

Your fate we leave to you, for we go now.”

……………………………………………

And after this the skies were empty

And the little world began as life anew.

The Hall of Suns stood in decay.

No human would venture within its sight.

As age rotted stone and short memory,

And all was quiet and peaceful from then on.

A little planet

Whose roar the universe heard;

Listened to and laughed.

The End

[Dale Simpson, November 1968]

 

POEMS FOUND IN OLD NOTEBOOKS

1.

You who ask which way to turn

As you find yourselves

Standing

At the crossroads

You designed in your minds,

You know

No candle at both ends

Burns

Too long

Before…. 2/16/73

2.

One night it left

As silent as it came

One day long (thought) past.

What it was—I never knew.

I did not know it was within

Until it left—

Disgusted, willful, or fleeing

I know not—

And yet, I know I lost

A non-defined essential.

The almost-imperceptible void

It left—concentrate of black

In a vacuum of darkness—

Dark nebulae in inner space. 4/12/73

3.

Fiery-flaming drop of eternal energy

Before my eyes and in my mind I see,

Freeze me, contemplate I, meditate me,

Pierce me, pierce you—

Burning fiery flame.

I swallowed, consumed I am

I have communed,

And for one infinit moment

I ne’er was, nor will ever be,

But I AM. 4/9/75

Desks at School

Thirty-three they repose

With gaping jaws eternally open—

A stupid wide-eyed grin

Frozen on their empty faces—

At once the mouth of knowledge

And seat of perception

Perhaps as vacuous now

As they have ever been,

Each one a measure of minds

That measured all the ventures

That counted but as loss.

The windows, ope’d for ventilation,

Were ope’d for frenzied escapation

(as if their closing would enhance

An idea’s dying chance

To plant itself within a mind—

Instead—borne upon a wind.)

In a classroom full of gaping seats

And students armed with youthful minds,

The greatest, one finds,

Knowledge-hoard of all

Is the quiet, wise, and unassuming wall.

And it may not be fair

That year after year it has to be there.

[undated but sometime in the 1971-72 school year at Kensett School]

SEVEN OCCASIONAL POEMS

I

My lord, a message came to me

From far beyond the seventh sea

Tickling my mind

No rest to find

Then

Fluttered it away on a breeze.

II

A man will weep o’er a woolen suit.

Ah, see how he weeps!

No sharp suit

But a bitter weep,

While one will cry o’er the sheep.

III

The world and me

Split company

If only for a day

And while gone

I enjoyed my stay.

Returned—

The world was the same old way

And all that was gained

Was a day that was lost.

IV

“Put a rider on this horse,” he said,

“And the world will bow at his feet.”

I looked to see the horse a-mount, but

Deciding I had a train to meet,

I sidled out into the street,

Leaving horses and jockies 

To the powers that be.

V

If I could reach into the heavens

And pull down the stars

To make a crown for you

What more would you want me to do?

If I could gather the winds together

Leaving only fair weather,

Would that be all I would do for you?

If I could command all nature’s realm

And it be so, whatever I said,

If I could heal the sick, raise the dead,

Would that be enough to do?

My call resounds and echoes

Through the speaking universe.

Hear, and learn of life.

What, indeed, can I do?

VI

A river-rage, a swallowing sea

The thunder and flashes round about me

Wind without pity,

My life a prey to wreck and ruin.

VII

Come together, 

He said

Join in ecstasy 

Feel the joys of being free

Cleave fast to each other’s breasts

Sleep the sleep of eternal rest

Love is

The eternal breast.

VII

Scatter, thoughts, to the seven winds

Glide where the breezes carry

See, you travel endlessly

Never slow, never tarry.

From wind to wind

Direction seeming, then up again!

The Way

What is The Way?

Who can tell The Way?

Show me The Way of the Lord

And I will follow the Way

That my way and Hi 

Be but one Way

Until the end.

All of life is but following

One way or another,

Seeking The Way.

All seek, but few will find 

Though all will follow a way or another.

Chicks at the Dump

Baby chicks cheeping, squeaking

Stumbling in an egg-pile

To the dump sent by 

The hatchery

To burn, consumed by flame

Consigned to the air,

To the dust.

Egg shells 

(They must have fed an army, I thought)

Do not a mountain make

But at the town dump.

And amongst the charred junk

And about-to-be-charred junk

Crying squeaking, cheeping

Newly-born and fuzzy-furred 

Chicks fall, stumbling.

Crying for Momma,

The fire in their hearts

Soon giving way to the fire

Of the city dump. 1/28/1971

A Day in the Life

A day in the life of a child of sin

Passes, repasses, and passes again

Before the eyes of a dying soul

Whose heart was replaced 

By a gaping hole.

Your vacant eyes and lifeless form

Betray the ice beneath the warm.

A Sea

A sea there be

Twixt you and me

You on the far shore shout your claim:

“I never again will name the name

Of he who waits on yonder shore.

Let me hear his name no more.”

And you will have your wish, oh fair,

I’ll drop the name I now declare

And evermore I’ll nameless be

For your return to me. 12/3/1969

My Brother’s Face

My brother’s face before me; 

My brother’s face.

A saved race—

We are a saved race.

This is our communion

This is our union

In Christ, in us—

We find strength.

We eat this bread

His flesh

We drink this cup

His blood.

This is his body, his blood—

We are his body,

The life-giving flow

Quickens the body.

Rejoice—here is his body.

By faith

We are his body in spirit

And in flesh.

Commune.

[12/18/1974]

We kill what we vivisect.

Especially religion.

[2/2/1975]

The Shekinah

What is this blazing fire before me,

This hallowed ground I cannot touch?

It I cannot see with eyes,

But feel it much.

It goes before to show the way….

Two More from My A-B Notebook

                I

The blowing angrily in the wind furious dust

Punishes from West Texas

We who greenly lounge in seeming Paradise,

Sipping cokes and talking

Hopkins in Wordsworthian Sonnets—

our Prelude to Existence real in an

Assumed imaginary world.

Break the spell, ye dust of hell!

II

The cracked porches and sidewalks of our life

Laid once perfect to the concrete man

Pitted, gouged, and cracked now

With much (or little) use.

[undated, but probably mid-70’s in

 Denton]