|
Details |
Tom Quigley Poem
8. Transformation
Yielding to those who have mastered the art
Of grasping one's place in existence's grand scheme
Life’s constant challenges never depart
But humble diligence will grow the dream
In passing from childhood to adulthood
Innocence to responsibility
Firm new role can be grasped and understood
In life, pain’s inevitability
A mother birthing new life through the pain
Dad slowly works his fingers to the bone
Soldiers trudging all night though frigid rain
Bearing remarkable burdens alone
Accomplishing in life what must be done
In this day’s heat or ere the morning run
9. Volta: Race Day
In the day’s heat or ere the morning run
Resolve has hardened in preparation
For this sacred journey under the sun
Through the land of the Navajo nation
Race morning is upon us, we prepare
Patient dawn waits below sharp horizon
Last meals and supplies, shoes and garb we wear
Gather together, our spirits rising
A convocation and tribal blessing
In the solemn shadows of the mesas
Final rituals, tying and dressing
Spirit warriors in garb of racers
The starter’s gun sends our bodies lurching
Footfalls queuing the inward eye’s searching
10. Inward Journey Begins
Footfalls queuing the inward eye’s searching
A harmonious quest will not fail
Meeting the spirit hawk inside perching
Melding feet to the undulating trail
Smooth hand circles driving arms swinging free,
Shoulders relaxed, rotate forward and back,
Trace three-dimensional infinity.
Every sinew not involved, loose and slack.
Countertwist rotation, thrust straight behind
Muscle springs compress, explode, power grows
Whipcrack diamondback wriggles down my spine
Through my circling legs, last snap through the toes.
With focus on moment in longest run
Our life’s greatest challenges can be won
11. Meditation
Our life’s greatest challenges will be won
With the spirit and not by the sinews
At times next to you the Dance’s ghosts run
Other times they can be found within you
Smooth, rolling strides become my rhythm and rhymes
Subtly pick open my heart and mind’s locks
At peace, I'm inured to passage of time
A slack-jawed Buddha floats between the rocks
Sun-baked vermillion cliff, eternity
Spirit of the wild, you are the portal
Stretching out to you, encompassing me
Melt, intertwine, these moments immortal
Fallen angels, my soul is expurging
When the body, mind, and soul are merging
12. Crucible
When the body, mind, and soul are merging
Million drops of agony are the test
Pail overflows, vitality purging
Time spans both horizons, forgotten rest
Flesh hooks of my own Sun Dance dig deeper
Through muscle and bone, draining resistance
Standing face to face with soul’s gatekeeper
Grasping the barest threads of existence
Inside, my withering heart starts to burn
Black crucible over the white-hot flame
Ethereal hands grant me their return
By my side, shadows dance, whisper my name
Body aflame, yet not longer burning
Through sacred quests, our spirits returning
13. Resolution
Through sacred quests, our spirits returning
Wan smile as I reach the final milestone
The line is crossed, strangely without yearning
From the summit, we always return home
The Spirits have won, silently rejoice
Spasming leg muscles announce their first clue
Weary soul may have found its deepest voice
But penitent’s flesh will yet have its due
Dusty column of exhausted racers
Shuffling past hallowed final marker
Sun Dancers’ ghosts fade into the mesas
To echoed drumbeats our spirits harken
Our guides to the Spirit World returning
This modern Sun Dance, an ancient yearning
14. Aftermath
This modern Sun Dance, an ancient yearning
With Spirits’ help, my soul has passed this test
Feet caressed the trail while muscles burning
My abiding need, this challenging quest
This long day ends without ceremony
Racers festooned in laurels internal
The trail run’s own spirituality
Modern Sun Dancers’ reward eternal
While the roads to the summit are many
One means up the mountain for those who seek
Life’s spiritual rigors aplenty
A runner’s path may also find the peak
Deep within us, we need this victory
A quest dating back through our history
15. Ghosts of the Sun Dance
A quest dating back through our history
Transcendence, to shed our skin and transform
Beyond mundane, to sacred mystery
Through painful trials, seeker’s soul is reborn
Our modern world lacks initiations
With substance to satisfy questing hearts
Life’s road of genuine tribulations
Yielding to those who have mastered the art
In this day’s heat or ere the morning run
Footfalls queuing the inward eye’s searching
Our life’s greatest challenges can be won
When the body, mind, and soul are merging
Through sacred quests, our spirits returning
This modern Sun Dance, an ancient yearning
5/19/16
Copyright by Author
For contest: Heroic Crown of Sonnets
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
Syllables confirmed by howmanysyllables.com
Copyright © Tom Quigley | Year Posted 2016
|
Details |
Tom Quigley Poem
Ghosts of the Sun Dance
1. The Path
A quest dating back through our history
Surpassing the flesh, a spiritual path
Human endurance, road to mystery
Dark trail winding through the gardens of wrath
It echoes through me, this deep ambition
Half century of miles, lifetime compressed
Much more than a race, a sacred mission
With light of hardship I hope to be blessed
To outsiders, an act of madness pure
What motivations could compel this feat?
Past limits of human strength to endure
Pushing the body well beyond defeat
Mind and sinews outlasting the firestorm
Transcendence, to shed our skin and transform
2. Sun Dance
Transcendence, to shed our skin and transform
Once, Plains Indians embraced the Sun Dance
Sacred solstice ritual to perform
Life’s rebirth to the sound of drums and chants
Young braves fasting in their preparation
A stout pole connects the lodge to the sun
Days of reveling unite the nation
Dancers’ exhaustion, they seek to outrun
Animal spirits drawn in by the rhythm
Forked tree with bison’s skull, hooks in their chest
Buffalo, bringer of potent vision
Delirious dancers complete their quest
The Spirit Quest resounds through history
Beyond mundane, to sacred mystery
3.To Endure and Transcend
Beyond mundane, to sacred mystery
Japan's “Marathon Monks” of Mount Hiei
The key to their spirit quest victory
To walk a Marathon one hundred straight days
Famed spiritual leader Sri Chinmoy
Believed hearts and spirits could be mended
Through self-transcendence, and he did enjoy
Countless long quests before his time ended
Chinmoy’s best, a fifty day epic quest
A journey thirty-one hundred miles long
Few are those who have ever passed this test
His famous Self-Transcendence Marathon
Darkest night, the gateway to a new morn,
Through painful trials, seeker’s soul reborn
4. The Spirit Is Willing
Through painful trials, seeker’s soul reborn
Deepest pain kindling the soul’s ignition
Follow the path supplicants’ feet have worn
Transformation’s crux, soul transition
Our defenses and walls cannot let in
Sacred blessings of the gods and spirits
Impenetrable, much to your chagrin
They cannot touch your heart if you fear it
Mortification, a tribulation
Humble display of the supplicant’s worth
A spiritual emancipation,
Pain always accompanies any birth
These transitions in few modern nations
Our world, rare rites of initiation
5. The Fall
Our world, rare rites of initiation
Deconstructed, traditions have been burned
Soulless life breeds infantilization
Perpetuating the puer eterne
To make our lives easier is progress,
Yet soft life an inadequate mantle
We can also suffer when life lacks stress
True transformation is never gentle
Safety, the goal of civilization
Eliminate risk, its increasing role
Safety’s bitter fruit is stagnation
Comfort cannot forge a resilient soul
Building true human vitality starts
With substance to satisfy questing hearts
6. Aimlessness
With substance to satisfy questing hearts
We dream to build greatness from the humble
Miseducation, meaninglessness start
Intrepid young souls questing for trouble
Drawn to drugs and gangs, tobacco and booze
No deep satisfaction do they contain
Oft mistaken for paying adult dues
But lead instead to spiritual chains
Youthful misadventures, trouble and blues
Sterile environment will generate
Tribal belonging they mark with tattoos
Clumsy efforts to self-initiate
Conquered world without initiations
Life’s road of genuine tribulations
7. Warrior’s Quest
Life’s road of genuine tribulations
Awaits our youth, whether they are prepared
Or not, we note with building frustrations
Future leaders, we see grow up impaired
The warrior within’s heartfelt yearning
A righteous cause in which to do battle
Meanwhile, the subway turnstiles are turning
Young champions doing time as cattle
Quests can be found for the searching young soul
Alas, the focus of education
Not on the development of the whole
But fashioning subjects of this nation
The challenge of living with one’s whole heart
Yielding to those who have mastered the art
5/19/16
Copyright by Author
For contest: Heroic Crown of Sonnets
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
Syllables confirmed by howmanysyllables.com
Copyright © Tom Quigley | Year Posted 2016
|
Details |
Tom Quigley Poem
Coach Dad
It is a magic time when a child ventures
Into the world, spreading wings,
Beginning the oft painful process
of moving from the nest to the sky.
And it is a fragile time, where first experiences
Weigh heavily on shaping the direction
In which young life begins to move
And often whether it moves at all
It is a trying time, of fear and nervousness
One little step out on their own
The start of something bold and beautiful
The molding of a young child's eye
Much is made of parents and peers,
Oft unaddressed is the role of others
Teachers and coaches, a collective entity
Not dissimilar from fathers and mothers
The torch of responsibility being passed
If only for a brief moment
No more clinging to the safety and comfort
of what is already a norm and known
Encouragement or unkind words
So often a matter of chance and moods
Have mighty impacts on growing hearts
Precious opportunities to help a growing life
Young minds and hearts right on the surface
We remember our coaches, good and bad
Caring or not, patience or none,
The struggles, thin times and thick
A team of seven year olds
Is not unlike a litter of unruly puppies
How will they ever pay attention?
Give them a ball, a glove, and a game!
Pride, courage, athleticism, self-confidence
All showcased for the world to see
Taking turns and building bonds
Grasping much more than a newfound skill
If you can stand to be measured,
and fail by that measure, even repeatedly
But come back from it, you'll forever have
One more vital skill in life’s toolbox
One youngster will not win the game alone
But the team can, and its joy
Is multiplied many times over.
All these things and more can be taught.
Whether it be on the field or off
Teamwork, respect and camaraderie
Will forever be entrenched in the mind
Of a well instructed boy or girl
5/4/16
© Tom Quigley and Tim Smith
Copyright © Tom Quigley | Year Posted 2016
|
Details |
Tom Quigley Poem
A t f i r s t, a l a z i l y f l o w i n g r i v e r
Timeless warm glow of a summer’s day
In love with the world’s vibrancy
Inaudible, clock ticking
Safe in seeming endlessness
Each day a lifetime
Some wished away
Years accrue
Time’s grains
Fall
Flow
Faster
Sweet life full
Moments precious
A n t i c i p a t e d
milestones fly past, too fast
Children’s years wax eternal
While ours accelerate quickly
Scenery outside the train’s window
Ever more beautiful, yet blurring, faster
7/13/16
© Thomas W. Quigley
Copyright © Tom Quigley | Year Posted 2016
|
Details |
Tom Quigley Poem
As Joe was biking down the side of the road
He ran across a chap with a dearth of driving skills.
Or more accurately, the driver almost ran over Joe;
'Twas one of life’s unwanted thrills.
A spirited exchange ensued between them
About who was in the right.
But this being the delicate poetrysoup,
I’ll keep the language light:
“You fornicating chewer of masculine appendages,”
Quoth the driver. “What the fornicating inferno were you doing?”
Replied Joe, “Just following the traffic signs,
you premenstrual hyena in need of screwing.”
He quipped, “You’re replete with fornicating doo-doo,
My light was coitally green.”
Quoth Joe, “Alas, your light was not.
And your maternal unit stars in movies obscene.”
Said he, “A shower of gold, is what I’m told,
May clarify your sight.”
Retorted Joe, “Stay in that car, spawn of Jar-Jar,
or you’ll be seeing lots of lights.”
“Perhaps remove the telephone pole,” said he,
“From where you store your bowel.”
Quipped Joe, “So I could fire a methane cloud in your direction?”
Oh my, how the driver did howl.
The driver continued. “I don’t give an airborne
intimate encounter about you and your bike.”
One thing was abundantly clear,
This man Joe didn’t like.
Joe gave not a rodent’s backside
For this foul troll’s attitude.
Yet the driver felt inclined to continue
with his prattling so rude:
“Consume excrement and expire,
you maternally fornicating
portion-of excrement consuming
rah-rah blah blah…” He continued bloviating.
Suggested Joe when he finished, “Might I refer you to a friend,
one you clearly need?”
He’s a cranio-proctologist,
The best around, indeed.”
“I invite you to perform an antatomically
challenging act of self-gratification,” quoth he.
“I ought to apply my foot to your tightly clad posterior
and then everyone will see.”
“While I’m good at riding bikes,” said Joe,
“Flexibility is not my strong suit.”
“So the contortionism is out,
and I plan to continue my route.”
“And as far as threats go,
I must say that I’m not very impressed.
I wouldn’t bet your Hollywood looks
on what I sure hope is a jest.”
“In matters of fitness, you clearly lag,” noted Joe.
Which is why you’re in the car, and I’m not.
Thus, I cordially invite you to make a bowel movement
or kindly get off the pot.”
Happily the driver understood the score.
Away he drove with a whine.
Turns out he had to rearrange a sock drawer.
“Too bad, “ thought Joe. “He talked such a good line.”
Away Joe pedaled into the day,
Whistling a happy tune,
hoping not to encounter such a
fornicating bowel movement show anytime soon.
3/2/16
Copyright © Tom Quigley | Year Posted 2016
|
Details |
Tom Quigley Poem
Thousands of gentle caresses, soft touch,
From the potter’s hands to properly guide
Tenuously stretching sides he might crush,
If too much pressure his fingers provide.
Young heart made of clay, forming on the wheel.
To guide your unfolding, our sacred charge.
Push we must, yet your own shape you reveal.
A careful balance, an impact so large.
Kiln’s searing flame awaits, the piece’s trial.
But before, time drying, forming in place.
Away from well meaning hands and anxious smiles.
Then ceremonial paint brushed on face.
Tempered by scorching waves of heat, the bowl
Gleams triumphant, a grail to hold the soul.
3/5/16
Copyright © Tom Quigley | Year Posted 2016
|
Details |
Tom Quigley Poem
Snow crested range backdrop, gurgling creek allurement
At long last was the field, ours its loamy splendor
Our fertile paradise beneath stars and thunder
Within this promise, we planted our enchantment
Time sprouted our hearts’ dreams with sunlight reverent
Steadfast home to shelter love through frost December
Joyously nurturing new lives, mild and tender
Yet a caretaker’s heart still yearns for nourishment
Other fields of promise neglected, gone fallow
Harvests left under the merciless sun to spoil
Their once magnificent bounties, cupboards hollow
Tears cannot mend cold ground neglected beyond toil
Their heartbreak, a tragic fate we need not follow
Come tend our garden, my love, till its fertile soil
5/29/16
© Thomas W. Quigley
Italian Sonnet, 12 syllables per line
Copyright © Tom Quigley | Year Posted 2016
|
Details |
Tom Quigley Poem
The humid Hawaiian heat hobbles my head and heart too,
Hitting as the Humvee high-tails past on the highway,
Sweat seeps steadily south from scalp to shoes
Convection current cooking, keep pedaling, pores crying.
Howling Haleakala Headwinds hammer hard,
Freezing face, fingers, and forehead.
Wistfully watching the warm water Westward;
Blasting breeze’s blows batter my body backward.
Soft saline sea spray spritzes the sunbathers
As the surges' steady smashing against the shore
Rhythmically rocks the run-down revelers
to a sweet, sun-kissed, seaside sleep once more.
For Elements Part 2—Wind Contest (First Place)
Sponsored by Brian Davey
Judged 3/29/16
Copyright © Tom Quigley | Year Posted 2016
|
Details |
Tom Quigley Poem
A sunbaked pile of dead sticks in the ground
I’m a divine oversight, it would seem
Hundreds of long spines poke out all around
Yet inside resides a colorful dream
I’m a divine oversight, it would seem
Look past my thorns, though they do seem countless
Yet inside resides a colorful dream
Deep down, I’m hiding a beauty boundless
Look past my thorns, though they do seem countless
Moisture kisses my roots in the springtime
Deep down, I’m hiding a beauty boundless
To this kindness, sprout tiny leaves sublime
Moisture kisses my roots in the springtime
Chlorophyll captures hard radiation
To this kindness, sprout tiny leaves sublime
Transmutes into my dream’s pigmentation
Chlorophyll captures hard radiation
My plumage explodes forth with colors bright
Transmutes into my dream’s pigmentation
In proud defiance of sun's bleaching light
My plumage explodes forth with colors bright
I sprout a thousand flames rose tangerine
In proud defiance of sun's bleaching light
Brush bold orange on the baked desert scene
I sprout a thousand flames rose tangerine
Hundreds of long spines poke out all around
Brush bold orange on the baked desert scene
A sunbaked pile of dead sticks in the ground
3/27/16
For contest: A Pantoum, A Poet's Choice
Sponsor: Eve Roper
Copyright © Tom Quigley | Year Posted 2016
|
Details |
Tom Quigley Poem
1—Milieu
Unique construction of body and mind
My niche in human pack not quickly found
Raw young heart of a curious design
The empty mirrors for my soul abound
Subjectively a bit odd to myself
A jangled, disconnected kind of sense
You’d really have to feel it for yourself
Bare toes in rougher grass, my side of fence
Surrounded by like minds, we all assume
This world of beings whose outsides look like ours
Belonging, my soul’s dream bound straight for doom
As if I’d flown a rocketship from Mars
I turn my back, but yet still feel their grins
At times it seems a penance for past sins
2—Hairshirt
At times, it seems a penance for past sins
This hairshirt of discomfort I have worn
Beneath my skin, wool sweater’s itch within
As if my past lives’ sins remain unshorn
My senses prone to overload, expend
Just like my mind, to peace they must return
A t-shirt tag could bother me no end
Yet bloodied elbows would escape concern
Vast sea of neon lights, eyes howling bright
My skull reverberates with common sound
A thousand Vegas strips eclipse my sight
Exquisite dullness, daggers soft abound
Bright deluge, hard sensations’ stormy squall
At times, my soul would fade into the wall
3—Fledgling
At times, my soul would fade into the wall
When I could not march to their beating drum
Fictitious rules apparent to them all
Ignored by most, my fate, hated by some
My heart is scalded, social asper-steam
Within me builds a silent asper-scream
The years of clumsy efforts don’t redeem
Relief, a frothing mug of aspercreme
I try to find the beat I cannot plumb
Although my overloaded senses hum
The human presence looms, I seek the numb
A frenzied fumble for my aspergum
The fairy tails I chased once seemed unmatched
To grow up in a dreamy world detached
4—Sinking
To grow up in a dreamy world detached
Illusions and delusions spread their wings
Again, again, my boyhood dreams were dashed
Stray child in charge of life, no good will bring
The poisoned rain did fail to bring relief
To run and hide within was my great lie
A deepened torrent, dark implosive grief
All sorrow that’s submerged is magnified
The spirit’s life for which I’d never reached
Until the fateful day, my first real prayer
Strong hallowed reed my drowning arm beseeched
Through desperation’s gift, my soul did dare
From darkness did my vagrant soul break free
Becoming the man I’m supposed to be
5—Integration
Becoming the man I’m supposed to be
A task not as straightforward as it sounds
The years drew mantle of success to me
Yet still my larger clan could not be found
My social self I’d tried to disavow
So often did I wish these needs would die
But luck, this curse my fate would not allow
Through many trials, my error rate so high
Within this maze, the rat had found no cheese
So weary now of feeling out of place
Their foreignness cannot be grasped with ease
Where are my people? I don’t see a trace
In this soul, vital difference would it make
For all the years I’d spent perfecting fake
6—Tribe
For all the years I’d spent perfecting fake
My heart, in large part, cowered underground
To ape the things that never could be mine
To be my own self seemed a risk profound
Occasions bring more friends across the rift
In parts and pieces, forming near a whole
A rare woman who can accept my gifts
Our small tribe hatched with love and kindred soul
At forty, I learned how to read a face
Such basic things with which you’re all endowed
My common sense uncommon, but my place
Becoming solid in my micro-crowd
Great challenge finding home where my heart sits
To figure out with my unaided wits
7—Of Understanding and Diagnosis
To figure out with my unaided wits
Awareness blossomed when I first did see
“Non-neurotypical,” whatever its
true meaning, doubtless it referred to me
Atypical, the wires under my skin
Atypical, my needs for contact too
Atypical, the fires that burn within
Atypical, these seeds my life imbued
Despite the careful wording in their books
The shrinks disparage us, their words betray
The path I find innate, it just might look
Compared to you, pervasively delayed
The Others you don’t get are not Unclean
Some scientists draw parallels between
8—Neanderthal Dream
Some scientists draw parallels between
Neanderthals and Asperger’s today
How ancient cavemen’s lives just might have been
The features, mind and body, seem to say:
Creative loners who seek their own place
Extinct, though hiding somewhere in our genes
An ancient mind lurks just behind my face
It seems we’re born to live in worlds between
Neanderthal projected forward, I’m
A lone wolf among pack dogs, number prime
In step and tune to my unique heart’s rhyme
A living museum piece who’s lost in time
This unexpected journey helped me find
Unique construction of body and mind
8/6/16
© Thomas W. Quigley
Copyright © Tom Quigley | Year Posted 2016
|
|