Bernie, Bernie, Bernie: You made the flowers bloom (A poem about Bernie Sanders, America's peaceful revolutionary) by Frank Lockwood first published in 2017. Edits 2024

The Flowers Miss Bernie Sanders

The flowers miss you Bernie. The garden keeper looks for you in vain.

You were the tip of an iceberg. A frosty peak that somehow melted into that big lump of snow ... the DNC.

You were the focal point, a magnifying glass that, aiming at injustices, might have turned them to ashes. A smoldering residue of hope is all that  now remains.

You were the watering can, that made the flowers bloom. Now the flowers wither for lack of your spout.

You were always found weeding, plotting for a garden of sweetness: You made the revolution swell. Why did you  leave the revolution? To join the opposition? To leave our hopes hope to wither and die?

Time will tell.

Your were the moon that lifted the tide. How that moon has  waned. See how the high-waters recede! 

You were the action figure, the hero who slammed his opponents into whimpering caricatures of doom. Now the fools are grinning with impish smiles.

You were like a magnet that held the iron filings in their unique and fascinating patterns on the pages of history. 

Now the iron falls this way and that.

You were nothing. A man. That's all. A good man, but just a man. All but having  gone away. Disappeared into the machinery of the party. Online pages lie idle.

Yet your fans imagine wild schemes.

Like martyrs in their buds, they dream of Resurrections. Some imagine vain things, back-stage plots. He will come again. He will be President!

Naysayers rub their hands in glee. "I told you so." 

Some believed the South would rise again, or the Soviet Union would reform. 

Bernie, we dreamed of you at night. We longed for your voice by day. We refused to let you just ... die. To us it seemed you more or less just went away at the crucial moment. 

Like a general taken captive, you are gone, as if to a foreign land. Without your direct leadership, it seems there now is none.

We dined among friends: The bread was wholesome, the wine was sweet. Now no one takes his place at the head of the table. An empty place sits vacant, a chair for unseen quest who will never pass this way again.

The charmer of the little bird. You are busy charming other little birds perhaps. Birds that sit in political convention seats, we are told.

To us it is all the same. You are out of sight. You are gone.

Before, you and the stars above made the night skies twinkle. Then they just  fizzled. How you and the sun made the days shine so brightly!

Bernie, Bernie, Bernie. The Revolution that was meant to be.

The flowers miss you Bernie Sanders. The flower children miss you too.


By Frank Ellsworth Lockwood

-----------------------------------------------

*Democratic National Convention
** Sanders Endorsed his opponent, effectively making him support his party's political other candidate, his former opponent Hillary Clinton.

#berniesanders #missingberniesanders #grievingforberniesanders #atributetoberniesanders #theflowersmissyouberniesanders #politics #bernie

Poem: RED GINGHAM DRESS AND BAREFOOT TOES

Red gingham dress and barefoot, sitting by a hickory tree, she was busy as could be. I said, “Darling what are you doing in the dirt on your knees?” She said, “Daddy I’m planting vitamin seeds.” 

I smiled and asked her where she found such seeds, and did she really think that they would grow?

She looked up with her three-year-old eyes and much to my surprise, held out a jar of special seeds, they were just the right size. The label  read, “Vitamin C,” so I guess they were seeds in disguise. So we finished planting the vitamin seeds, kneeling by the hickory tree. 

Some nifty years went by. 

Now I wish I could see daughter again, sitting barefoot on her knees. She grew up like we knew she would, and then she moved away. And far too soon her momma died and that left her brothers and me. She relocated to Florida, to live in Paradise. And now I sit here wondering, does she often think of me? 

She runs and swims, does Iron Woman too. Her home looks out on the ocean. Her yacht is harbored on the bay. But in her heart is there a hickory shaped hole, since my darling went away? And does she recall planting those seeds, as she sails from the quay?

Not long ago they say she caught a great amazing fish. It was a lovely day I’m sure. But none so lovely as this: that day, so many years ago, when we sat by the hickory tree, and in red gingham dress and barefoot toes, she planted Vitamin C.

Beware the Day of the Gods

The gods are rich!

The earth is their footstool: Their gifts make a way for them. The gods open doors that no man can shut, and close doors that no man can open. They create and destroy the world. They ascend to the heavens; yes, they are there. They drill their way to hell and poison the waters. If I make my bed in hell, they run the place.

They kill and they give life; they feed the poor, or starve them, whatever. Who are you to judge the gods? They say, “We worked hard to become gods. Work harder! And longer. "

If you are in the presence of a god, do not eat the dainties, the foods of the gods, for are laced with poisons.

The gods execute judgement on the nations, slaying the mighty ones and shredding the children and wives as they cower in their homes, in their schools, or in their hospitals. The sand is thirsty for their blood. Do you see the gods approaching? Flee to the hills. Do not remain, for two women shall be working in the fields: The one shall be taken. The other shall be left.

Not good to be taken. To “Heaven as they say.”

Not good to be left. To the ruins below.

A man of the desert -- a man dressed in black -- appears and takes her as a sex slave. The gods have made her a gift.

The gods make the laws and demand obedience and worship: We create banners, we make pledges and we wave flags and, of course we pay our taxes. Defy the gods if you dare. And if you live, flee to an Ecuadorian embassy.

The gods provide blinders for the sons of men. "Don’t look at Nicaragua, at Chile, at ... "

They point here and they point there: “Oh, look!” They say. "Look at Putin, look at China, look at Korea! Look at Iran!"

And while we are looking this way and that, they go away to where we do not know. Some high-mountain castle, perhaps, with wine and sex and grapes, with tables of oranges and apples and quiche. And with computers and smart phones and security cameras. And an evil god in another country sees it all, reads the text messages and the emails and laughs aloud. "Fools!” He says. “They must have mush for brains!”

Scientists speak and the gods flee. The oligarchy speaks and the gods return, and bring with them revivals of old religions, they bring back the gods whose names are too holy to pronounce.

Some say, “No, no, not those old beliefs! They are outdated!”

But in time the objectors are worn down, and the gods go on shaming them, ridiculing them, hounding them until they remain sullenly silent.

The gods forgive some of us, and we feel good.

We are the blessed. We sing, the new old songs: "God bless our land.” We chant of allegiances. We praise the brave and the strong who we sacrifice to our gods. And while we sing and pray, and chant, and die, the gods teach us another chorus, a bloody song of war that drowns out the cries the hungry, the old, the weak, the sick. It is a song that teaches us to hate, to fear and to kill.

The gods give men the gifts of fire and of poison, and with the fire they warm us, and sometimes they burn us. They swoop from the sky, howling like demons and spreading death in their wake. Mountains are leveled in their path, cities are demolished, hardly one stone left upon another. Museums are left in ruins.

We dare not displease them. The sound of their roaring is deafening. We tremble with shock and awe.

They can at times be inexplicably generous. They give gifts to men. The gifts deceive us.

They own the cattle on a thousand hills but they still want the Grande Canyon too. They collude to destroy the land. The earth trembles beneath their feet. The world reels with floods and fires, with tornadoes, earthquakes and tornadoes. Still, the gods spin the wind and the rain out of control: The climate changes at their command. Their breath melts the polar caps. The atmosphere stinks with the foul odors of their breath. We gasp.

A god in our country plots evil against a foreign land, and the evil god in that same country fondles the two buttons on his desk, one green, the other red.

Beware the Day of the Gods.  

#poem #thegods #thedayofthegods #beafraid #politics #oligarchy #gods #religion

He Comes: An Easter Poem by Frank Ellsworth Lockwood

(An admittedly pedantic poem by Frank Ellsworth Lockwood, April 5, 2015, revised February 2016)

He comes. Jesus that is.
Every eye shall see him.
Flying as an eagle.
And we shall we behold him
Or so they say ...

He is our objective,
Our long awaited goal:
Is just ro see him 

As He really is.

Son of Man,
Or Son of God,
Or some sort of Being in between,
Much debated Savior 

Of an earlier church he left behind

Yet my own reflections 

Plague my weeping soul.
I look toward the mythical 

Heaven as the goal

And staring back I see
Only a gross image of me.

How can this be?
But I never see Him as he truly is!

None of us do.
His truth hides in harness,
Like a lowly beast of burden,
Plodding in a furrow where others never go.

He serves men with muddy feet
Submerged in Asian beds of rice,

Or buries himself deep in snow

Like a polar bear he sleeps

In caves of ice. 

He treads the sands with camels,
Piled high with spices
That leave us smelling nice,

But at what a hefty price!

He hides in pointed hats
And rides in furl turbans,
Or snuggles down in owl feathers
Or flies no more,

Now a quill in Indian headgear

Or He rides in the dust
In a cowboy hat
Western curled
Vaquero style.

A man who rides white steeds on high,
Who forges four eerie Horsemen,
Inspiring suffering Saint
And fiery Apocalyptic alike.

Yet sadly, this Savior
Seems to know his place
And to understand, to acquiesce.
He is the shield from Good Friday's glare.
A sacrifice made up nice.

In Easter bonnets and bunny baskets.
A protection from the scowling stare …
Of God, but he comes.

Yes he comes.
=
He comes riding on a lowly donkey,
Or on a white, prancing steed
He gallops through the skies,
Forgiving enemies,
Forging alibis.

Or slashing them to pieces
With double-flashing swords.
He feeds them to the birds.
(This is in the Bible too!)

Take your pick:
Any way he is … he comes.
And yet we do not see him
Not as he is.

And until we see him as he is
All things continue as from the beginning.
But wait! There he is in the desert! Or out in a field!
“Believe them not!”

He will come to rescue the world,
Or perhaps he will destroy it.
He is love, or he is hate.
He loves all men equally.
Or all equally he hates.

Oh, he has his special race.
His love knows no boundaries,
And lands he assigns, 

To designated people. 

To others a stone 

To smash the skulls,

Of the luckless babies 

Of foreign idols. 

But he is coming soon, 

Or perhaps, a thousand of years from now.
Regardless: Whoever,
Whatever
You or I imagine him to be:

That is not him!

Ever coming,
Always present
Yet never arriving.
The world awaits him.

Waits breathless
For every eye to open,
And that we all may see Him.
Yet not as we imagined him to be,
But as he is.

They say the Universe groans and yearns
For us to greet him, 

In all his humanity
Or in all his divinity.
Or in all his something else.

It is said that when we see him
We shall be like him.

Like him who always is ever past,

Who is continually Present, 

And always, always, Coming as well.

Purely love, or purely hate.
He is on the way, riding in his chariots
In the sky, and so it shall be when
And if, every eye beholds him ... 

That justice will be due.

Until then: He comes. Parousia. The Presence.

Happy Easter 2015  (Maranatha.)

Edited February 1, 2017

End.------------------------

Notes: (See dictionary.com)

Par·ou·si·a
[puh-roo-zee-uh, -see-uh, pahr-oo-see-uh]

NOUN
1.advent.
2.(lowercase) Platonism. the presence in any thing of the idea after which it was formed.
Source: Dictionary.com

#easter #easterpoem #frankellsworthlockwood #poem #poems #hecomes #religion #christianity #jesus #oarousia

The Mystery of the White Rose

The Mystery of the White Rose


By F. Ellsworth Lockwood

November 5, 2007

A beautiful woman called today.
In her right hand, she bore a White Rose.
The flower she held was meant for me,
And immediately I wanted to become her lover.

I found no vase to hold her flower,
So I placed her in some water
In a plain old drinking glass.
Perhaps that was my mistake. Who knows?
I should have been more Aware,
Of how a Pure White Flower grows.

Before I knew
She was in my arms, this precious lass.
Our lips met and then
We melded so close together
I felt as if we were One.

But that was not yet to be.
We kissed, and hugged,
And kissed again
And then...

And then she sat up
Straight and tall,
"I should not be here with you like this!
This is something I cannot do at all."

And she turned away
Ran back down the hill
And I was left to stand in the door and watch her.
To watch her and to wonder,
Until I recalled he Mystery, of the White Rose.

I turned to see what remained then,
And there upon my counter,
Except for the bud, the stem was bare.
Without a leaf, not a single one,
Though leaves were still in season.

And as the girl ran down her path
I soon saw the Reason;
The leaves, all edged in black as if by poison,
Had shriveled up and died.
Died right on the stem, then fallen asunder.

Yet the rose still clung to the poisoned vine,
As if wishing to be plundered.
So my hand moved tentatively,
As if searching how best to pick Her.

And just as I gazed upon the rose,
She started to unfurl.

Faster and faster as the girl ran away,
Her petals showed their splendor.
So I sat and I wept,
There in my kitchen,
Watching in amazement,
The miracle of growth before my eyes
As the bud became a flower.

I reached again,
Just to touch the lovely stem.
But then I had to stop,
For first one petal fell to the table
And soon followed another.

So then I retreated to my chair
And I sat and I watched, and I breathed her sweet air,
As I observed her gentle unfolding.
And sitting there, all alone ... as alone as alone could be,
I cried as I pondered ...

The Mystery of The White Rose.
#poem #poetry #rose #love

Safari of the Wandering Lover

Safari of the Wandering Lover

By F. Ellsworth Lockwood (All rights reserved)
October 15, 2007

I listen for her wings at night,
As if at that late hour,
She might just fluff her feathers,
Flap her wings, and take to air,
Might navigate the hidden dangers,
Of an hour when none can be in flight.

I almost fall asleep but then,
A sudden sound the darkness defies.
The exotic call is like her voice,
Yet it’s only some lonesome bird that cries.  

At daybreak now upon the water,
In my trusty green canoe,
I take up a journey, with perhaps no end,
And again my Wandering Lover pursue.

In lieu of her friendly palms, however,
I feel the wayward thrust
Of those tiny waves on the river,
That one can never trust.


They constantly push and pull my canoe,
While a force, like a silent, mossy lust,
Drags me away from the ponds and the rush.
And the birds cry as we sail away

Into the dangers of rocks and brush.
And so I look for her everywhere,
Up on high and way down under,
Even under cover.
What spirit can this be,
That pulls me here and pushes me there,
And threatens to drag me asunder?

And meanwhile my lover fails to appear.
It's enough to make one wonder.
I awaken in the early morning,
And as I rise, I pray,
“Let this be the very day, the long awaited day,
My Wandering Lover comes to me.”

At night again, before the dawn,
Before the sun’s enlightening feature,
I talk to my friends, the owls who listen.
To every forest creature.  

I tell them, “Shh,, I think she’s asleep.
Please sirs, do not wake her.”
When she is ready, she will arise.
When the time is right, she will seek me.

I do not expect her to flee in the night,
Like some common thief or a robber,
So please do not wake her up.
You should not arouse my lover. 

Many years have now come and gone
With neither trace nor indication.
Still I wait, and wonder, and listen,
And hope that she will hasten.

And even now I feel the tug, the pull,
Of her body and of her mind.
I think somehow she feels it too,
And that we must be intertwined.

And so I wait, and I, cry, and I pray,
And I live again, each and every day,
In search of my Wandering Lover.

#wandering #lover #searchformylover #insearchoflove #love #dating #romance

Her Goodby, Our Adieu

Her Goodbye, Our Adieu

Copyright by F. Ellsworth Lockwood, November 28, 2006

I still hold the flowers I had hoped to send
To the woman, the friend, I had come to adore.

What shall I do with this love of mine
When she says I must call no more?
Like a boat at the dock,
Shall I watch her slip?
Just … slip … slip … away,
And hope that she fades from memory?

As if it were just another day.

She keeps disappearing in walks by the beach,
Or swimming away until she’s far out of reach.
I am now becoming a dot on her shore.

Yes. I feel myself floating.
Floating … floating,
Like a log in slow motion.
No rudder, no oar, no map no direction,
With nowhere to go and no place to moor.

Sometimes I turn.
I start rolling in fast, all foaming and bubbling.
But that does no good.
Next thing I know,
I am slowly receding back out to sea,
For though I love her, she does not love me.

Now I mean less to her day by day,
Than the shell she once found
In the sand at the reach.
Looked at briefly, and then tossed away,
No remorse, no regret, just a flip of her hair

At wondrous things that were meant to be?

Ah, once we stood by the ocean-side bare,
There was warmth in our bodies and fire in the air.
But our lips never met.
We just walked away
Not trusting our feelings.
Afraid we strayed.

What shall I do with this love of mine
That never was meant to be?
When looking for lovers,
I at once spied her, and, yes, she too saw me,
But she turned and fled away in a rush,
She could not wait, though I saw her blush.

Perhaps some future, dreary season,
On a detour, dreaded far beyond reason,
Two lost lovers again shall meet,
Shall lift their eyes, with unfeigned delight,
Shall wonder anew with fresh insight.

When through a rift in the skies shall appear,
The Reason, the Wonder, the Compensation.
Forgetting the days of long before,
When we pined alone on some forlorn shore,
We shall embrace, we shall implore,
We shall the heights, the depths, and the shallows explore,
Of our love. And we shall be one
Forevermore.

Yes, we waved goodbye as she started to drift ...
But at the time, I never really believed it. Could not comprehend.

Nor think it was the end.

I am older now, and here I stand

Watching again, this time, from a cold, windblown shore.

In my hand no flowers, in my pockets no gold,

Yet I look and I long. And I feel very, very old.

Oh, I have not forgotten.

I still yearn and I wish,

But without so much hope.

My heart murmers.

Just, a soft beat, a humming, not really a song.

And still I wait by the shore, and I think,

Will today be the day? She will wash up again?

Or, if not her, then another?

Only this time, like a bottle with a message,

With fair words from afar?

Words of love?

Oh ocean, oh sea, please bring to me, just one

Sweet bottle of the life that was meant to be.

With resignation, the cliffs will cave in;

The waves will reduce the rocky shores,

Yet I cannot forget the image of love.

Love, the only far country that men can explore,

Worthy the gaze toward a distant shore.

I turn to leave, and there in the sand

A footprint, and here another,

A trail so faint, a path so light,

Yet in the approaching night,

I know it must be true ... that my path must always, ever lead ...

To you, my Love.

To You.

End

Copyright by F. Ellsworth Lockwood, November 28, 2006

#love #unrequitedlove #poem 

A Winter's Prayer

"Let There be Joy, and Chestnuts and Rum"
By F. Ellsworth Lockwood

When evening's gleam, of golden light,
Fades away and darkness rules the night,
When I cry and my heart feels only despair,
When my ears strain, yet nothing I hear,
And there is a chill that grips the air,
Please Lord, let there be something more ...

Let there be daylight, and a dawn to come.

And let there be chestnuts, oranges, apples and rum.
Let there be happiness.
Let there be friendship, joy, laughter and sun.
A day with smiles. A day with peace.
A day of prancing and joyous release.

Let there be joy. Let there be happiness.
Let there be dancing and singing and chestnuts and Rum.
Yes, peace and prancing, happiness, joy,
Singing and dancing and ... a day of great fun.

#poem #christmaspoem #searchformeaning #meaning #happiness

The Laughter in the Sky

The Laugher in the Sky
By F. Ellsworth Lockwood

Will the clouds go dry,
If laughter shakes the sky?
Will sermons cease,
And warriors make peace?

If God should laugh,
If He says, "Ho ho ho,"
Instead of "Woe to Joe,"
What will happen then?

Will his blushing bride,
Take it in stride?
Or will she fall down,
And rent her gown?

If the Prince of Peace
Appears smiling in the clouds,
Will the world rejoice,
Joy fill the crowds?

With no Simon's sword,
To define The Word,
Who will trust the One,
Though he dwarfs the Sun?

Who is this King,
Who dares to fly,
To reverse the curse,
And to say, "Come nigh"?

Indeed, how should we reply,
To One who appears,
As "The Laugher in the Sky"?

(Laughing Little Wolf, February 2006)

#laughterinthesky #laughter #religion #poem #poems #frankellsworthlockwood #lockwood

Shadow Man

Shadow Man

Who is that Shadow Man,
Standing in the sun?

Who is that Shadow Man?
Guess it's time to run run run.
Eeeee!
Guess it's time to run.

#shadowman #poem #poetry #frankellsworthlockwood #lockwood

Let There be Flowers on the Floor

Let There be Flowers on the Floor.
By F. Ellsworth Lockwood

Throw your flowers on the floor.
Crush the blossoms, everywhere.
This day our love
Perfumes the air.

We break our bread
And share our wine.
In sacred peace
Our lives entwine.


Chorus
Let there be joy.
Let there be happiness.
Let there be coolness in the breeze,
Birds flying through the trees.
Let there be happiness,
And the magic of love.

Let there be flowers on the floor,
Petals in our hair.
For sure,
They'll be ringing at our door,
Just to share the company,
Of our love sweet love, oh love.

Bridge

And I'll be holding, holding your hand,
And they'll be playing, playing with the band,
And we'll be prancing, dancing,
Until we're buried in the sand,
In the sand.

Back to start.


#flowersonthefloor #frankellsworthlockwood #songs #poems #poetry #love #flowers

Carla Anne Come Talk to Me

Carla Anne Come Talk to Me
By F. Ellsworth Lockwood

Carla Anne come talk to me,
Come and hold my hand.
Carla Anne sit close by me,
Help me understand. Anne, Anne.
Help me understand.

Solo Work

I must have seemed so strange to her.
Made her feel dismayed.
So she turned her back on me.
On a lonesome day. Ay, ay.
On a lonesome day.

Please help me find my way.

Solo Work

Now I keep a thousand wives.
Telling them all lies.
Pointing them to Paradise,
For the big surprise, yeah, yeah.
For the big surprise.

Requiem:
(Chanted by priest)

Santo sancto Diem,
Mas poder al podium
Holy Moly Tritium
Santo fe reciben.

Solo Work

Chorus Group Chants: To see the big surprise.

Some day she will appear,
Scarlet goddess of the skies.
Let her violet dress fall down,
Around my alibis. Baby yeah.
Around my alibis.

Maybe then she will talk with me.
Not turn away.
She will sit there patiently,
In her dynasty, yeah, yeah,
Holy dynasty.
Yeah, holy dynasty.

La la, la la la la la. Come company.
La la, la la la la, Come company.
Solo Work

On my barren knee.
Feel my funny bone.
I guess I hardly know you now.
I still feel alone, alone, alone.
I still feel alone.

More Solo Work

I need someone to talk to me,
And to hold my hand.
Carla please sit close to me,
Help me understand. Dear Anne.
Help me understand.

End.

#carlaannecometalkto me #carlaanne  #frankellsworthlockwood #lockwood #thegreatwhore #christianity