"bevy" poems
A long, long time ago, I can still remember when,
Junk food made me smile,
And I knew if had my chance,
That I could make my fatness dance,
And maybe I was happy for a while.
But McDonald's made me shiver,
With every burger they'd deliver,
Bad news on their doorstep,
I couldn't take one more step.
I can't remember if I cried,
When I passed size twenty-five,
But something touched me deep inside,
The day I knocked back obesity fries,
CHORUS.
So, bye, bye McDonald's French fries,
Drove my chevy away from McDonald's,
didn't have a bevy,
I said goodbye to whiskey and rye,
Singing no more apple pies,
That's the end of obesity fries.....
Did you go to McDonald's biomes?
Did you know you're changing your genomes?
Eating all those pesticides?
Now do believe they love you, guys?
Might as well eat dead flies!
And can you change evolution in real time?
Well, I know you're addicted to them,
You'll need more than treadmills in the gym,
Now can't even put on your shoes,
Man, you'll dig the obesity blues,
CHORUS.
I was an obese teenage bronco buck.
Driving to McDonald's in a pickup truck,
But I knew I was out of luck,
The day I ate landfill in those French fries...
I started singing bye, bye obesity fries,
Drove my chevy, had no bevies,
And the burgers were dry,
This is the day I knock back French fries.
CHORUS.
I met a girl who sang the blues,
She'd passed turning size twenty-two,
I asked her if she ate junk food too,
She just smiled and drove away,
I drove down to the store no more,
Where I ate additives years before,
But the junk food store didn't care anyway...
CHORUS
CHORUS....
Nov 27, 2015
Nov 27, 2015 at 4:56 PM UTC
is like no other early morning, man reborn, in the delivery
room of sky blue, the offsetting water deeper bluish hue,
the trim-all-around of the mixed salad greens of the staff's
scrubs as they usher in unity, with no imp-unity, the risks,
while the supervisory sky, disperses cumulus clouds in
peppercorn patterns of white chains, or big wide solitary
brushstrokes on a a ****** canvas, gettin' the feel in the
palm of the heft of brush, the viscosity of the paint, the day's
palette reflecting available colors in order to create a uni~cued
original of what has been painted an uncountable times before,
and before…
tho short weighted, was the sleep of the prior night's restful,
he awakes to the early morning light, the sounds of early
island rouse him, even, arouse him, for the August chill
foretells of the early onset of memory loss of the peculiarities
of this summered simmering, human warming and baking
and natural braking of the slowing of the heart rate, to better
accommodate, nature's hints and hidden reminiscences
of the true purpose of the summer's intervention upon our
collective and unique bottling, our individualized containers,
un~lidded, uncovered, eager for the fuel of sunrays replenish-
ing the length of our lives by the elixir of the summer
it is a chill 63 Fahrenheit at this time of day as we crossover
to the nigh day, from the cooling air conditions of dark,
the occasional helicopter intrudes upon the morning's calm,
the water placid, the geese honking regarding my watchful
rewarding presence, a slew, a bevy, of female vocalists, to
ease this transitory performance unfolding, and though one
feels the existential of his solitary singularity, as he thinks,
nay believes, he is the only one in attendance at this ritualized
emergence, he takes in the cool of, the heat of, the admixture
of both, the clashing integers of each, and he, fully invigorated,
goes silent, for once more, he has uncovered new combinations of
old words to accept and describe a new day's creation, miracle of miraculous, defying the odds of this ventures's success, his own continuance on this sheltered but open all around island implanted tween two tines of land, as if all the surroundings were created just to protect this, wholly holy place…
7:00am
Silver Beach
Shelter Island
Aug 19 2025
Aug 19, 2025
Aug 19, 2025 at 8:00 AM UTC
A ****** of crows, an ostentation of peacocks,
a parliament of owls, a knot of frogs,
a skulk of foxes, a siege of herons,
a paddling of ducks, a charm of finches.
This bevy of birds is a vocabulary find,
But what can it all mean,
In the world of human being?
A troop of toddlers, a slurry of students,
a gaggle of gentry, a bevy of boys.
I am of a mind that in naming of kind
Human being is best defined.
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 11:46 AM UTC
She said she collects pieces of sky,
cuts holes out of it with silver scissors,
bits of heaven she calls them.
Every day a bevy of birds flies rings
around her fingers, my chorus of wives,
she calls them. Every day she reads poetry
from dusty books she borrows from the library,
sitting in the park, she smiles at passing strangers,
yet can not seem to shake her own sad feelings.
She said that night reminds her of a cool hand
placed gently across her fevered brow, said
she likes to fall asleep beneath the stars,
that their streaks of light make her believe
that she too is going somewhere. Infinity,
she whispers as she closes her eyes,
descending into thin air, where no arms
outstretch to catch her.
3k
~
*Ragged mist of stalled horizon,
from dry dock
to disadvantage point
second hand shops
of sackcloth and ash,
they contain multitudes
treading the outside edge
of perception,
rehearsing disaster
in fistfuls of earth,
and the immaterial:
the stuff of pure shadow
a bevy of dead buildings
resemble a fallen actress
in the throes of dance,
with emaciated figurines leaning
forward in the temple,
listening for clues
too far to whisper
work will never resume
on the tower,
and it will remain painfully scanty,
a place to bury strangers
or raise up cholera
the third world summer
sun on sacred walls,
red before orange,
let the rays burn away our sins,
we contain multitudes
but one step inside doesn't mean
we understand anything*
~
Mar 22, 2023
Mar 22, 2023 at 5:29 PM UTC
Misty morning, peeping shy sun,
bevy of beauties, techies all,
sit in a plush bus stop, glued to their smart phones;
*two young men hesitant, like the apologetic sun,
try to catch their attention in vain.*
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 11:00 PM UTC
My friend lives
With anemia and a stomach ucler
With the past of an alchoholic father and an abusive brother
With emotionally abusive ex-girlfriends
Who sometimes plays the butler
With a crammed-full-to-the-seams schedule
With a previous eating disorder and cutting
With the mind of a genius
With the heart of a saint
With the hands of an artist
With a bevy of friends, willing and eager to help
With freedom and a job
With with me, Wyatt, Julia, and Tom on the other end of the phone
Waiting for his call for help
But he is so quiet, pushed into a world of silence, dark, and miserable art
He shelters himself from all, and so we hover nearby
Searching for a crack in the walls of his dungeon, but all we find is a window
He holds the key, but does not yet realise it
So we coaxe and console and soothe, vocalising our concerns and aid
Reaching towards him to pull him away, to touch his heart with the
Hope that a gentle caress, a well placed sweet stroke of kindness may
Free him from his torment
But as of yet, we are still trying
Oct 24, 2012
Oct 24, 2012 at 8:41 PM UTC
exquisitely beautiful "you have lovely eyes"
beautiful, pretty, attractive, good-looking,
appealing, handsome, adorable, exquisite,
sweet, personable, charming; enchanting,
engaging, winsome, seductive, **** gorgeous,
alluring, ravishing, glamorous; tasty, knockout,
stunning, drop-dead gorgeous; killer, cute,
foxy, hot; beauteous; comely, fair
"a lovely young woman" scenic, picturesque,
pleasing, easy on the eye; magnificent, stunning,
splendid "a lovely view"
very pleasant or enjoyable; delightful.
"we've had a lovely day"
delightful, very pleasant,
very nice, very agreeable, marvelous,
wonderful, sublime, superb, magical;
terrific, fabulous, heavenly, divine, amazing, glorious
"we had a lovely day"
noun: lovely; plural noun: lovelies
1. a glamorous woman or girl:
"a bevy of rock lovelies"
Old English luflic, see love, -ly [1 above]
Aug 18, 2018
Aug 18, 2018 at 12:13 PM UTC
The wallpaper in your grandmother’s front room
is appalling. Old bible yellow pages,
bevy of bubbles joining,
thickening like arteries beneath the surface.
And what is that? The daily brain teaser,
printed patio of letters.
Five down - ‘state of being alone’.
I think I know it. I am sure of it.
Pack of hard-boiled molar-breakers covers the rest.
I do not know why
you have brought me here.
We stand like soundless instruments.
Wrenched from bed so had to dress,
brush my lips ****** rake my hair.
Presentable? Presentable.
Your gran, almost ninety, concrete
cracks lightning strike on the cheeks,
specific smell that comes
with the accumulation of decades.
She does not know me, will forget me.
Syllables will stagger out
from the mouth, words, whole sentences
watery or gone. Instant evaporation.
A shuffle. And another shuffle.
A loudening shuffle.
Enter. Oh, how sorry I feel!
Hands quiver as frightened leaves,
cup quickstepping on the saucer.
You dash over, take control,
steady the shake of brick-ish tea.
My name comes, tinged with a lisp.
Your grandmother looks at me
with her eyes, jelly-rolled marbles,
a smile creaking across her face.
You know it. I know it. She knows it.
A woman caught in the icy fist of winter.
She sits. Sighs. I know the feeling.
I bend down, say slowly,
enunciate clearly.
Solitude.
Five down, my dear? Yes, correct.
Nov 26, 2018
Nov 26, 2018 at 5:04 PM UTC
Life, the present tense
Pleasant and promising
Singular & plural
Fair blend of gender
Active noise, passive voice
The grammar of life
Life is intense,
Glowing and glorious;
Blue blown umbrella
For wide void exposure
Feather touch weather
For cool n’ calm respite
Illuminated one half
To eke out living
Glittering dark on other half
To rest and recuperate
Aroma of smiling flowers
Multicolor corona
Green rich panorama
Overseeing mountains
Rousing roaring oceans
Patrolling Hydro Power Puffs
Add bonus to the bevy
What a glamorous globe in space!
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 8:07 PM UTC
When I was young high school kid
I wasn’t doing very well with girls
I didn’t know what to say to them
But I really wanted to give it a whirl.
So, when Mama saw me struggling
She saw me blowing my chance
She told me, “They’ll come around,
All you have to do is learn to dance.”
So, she showed me some rather easy
Stylish steps from her jitterbug days
I took them and danced to the music
That the deejays chose to play.
Mama taught me jitterbug
And that helped quite a bit
She won awards as a teen
I heard she was quite a hit.
I rocked and I rolled and bounced
My shoes got to moving with the beat.
Then I was snapping my fingers and
My body went along with my feet.
I twirled the girls I danced with and
Held them snuggly up close and tight.
And the girls started asking me to dance
Right away from that very first night.
Mama taught me jitterbug
And I very glad she did
It turned a geeky wallflower
Into a much more popular kid.
I learned the Stroll and Hully Gully
The UT and the Electric Slide
With a changing bevy of beauties
Dancing along right by my side.
This was before Twist showed up
Which everybody could learn to do
But even then I found that I could
Teach them another trick or two.
Mama taught me jitterbug
And that helped quite a bit
She won awards as a teen
I heard she was quite a hit.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 10:39 PM UTC
Walking along the bank
of the prancing village brook,
lined with screwpines
in full bloom spreading
musky scent
and shamelessly imitating the color of your skin,
thinking of you all along,
on the way to Krishna temple
you frequent,
I see a surge-
a bevy of giggling village belles,
your ***** friends,
march forward,
holding the hearts of young men to ransom,
teasing me on the sly,
for courting you so ardently.
Who can stop them,
a barrage breach of
Cupid's darlings,
tailing me by chance.
My eyes searched everywhere,
but but missed you so much,
today they miss,
the crown jewel they deserve,
to be in the middle,
that can be only you always!
On the imaginary crown of them
you would have shone,
added charm and embellished
their victory lap,
in the guise of temple visit,
to worship the Lord, lover nonpareil,
whose love life is our lore.
On long black tresses
they wore garlands of jasmine,
can't help pity their haste
and muddled taste,
you would have told your brood,
how jasmine would have felt,
unless perfectly adorned on hair, those
incomparable blessing in fragrance.
Dec 13, 2012
Dec 13, 2012 at 11:38 AM UTC
*A caste of hawks at a rage of maidens
Led a cete of badgers to a gaggle of geese
And a school of whales brought a shiver of sharks
To a fever of stingrays at fabulous feast.
An absence of waiters in a crackle of crickets
Served a band of brothers a bevy of beer
Then the army of ants in the choir of angels
Left a filth of starlings decidedly queer.
But the clew of worms in the hive of bees
Swapped the bike of wasps for a ghost of gnats
While the raft of otters in the den of iniquity
Turned the loveliness of ladybirds to a river of rats.
Why an array of eels fed a bunch of grapes
To a pod of dolphins…nobody knows
But a disputation of lawyers cawing
Killed your flock of lice in a ****** of crows.*
M.
11 April 2015
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 6:30 PM UTC
Loft for the weighted memories still stuck to earth by way of highways in mind deciding worth lost to the odds just might light your best and not the worst to leave you burned and make you hurt with a hole left mid breast so the whole heart started at first sight turns wild in flight and down to depths of stress plumbed once per month while you cry out little droplets blessed with time passed and spent at life's expense, listless and bound to recollect proud moments of ownership, passe notions of leadership, the one who leads and was led is nondescript, if it's turbulence or asphalt smooth to speed in sleep in place of days waking, walking two by four recede to dream where you toss and kick fears and pain away under thick rain you'd rather dry with orange rays and haze of heat, one mute mouthed faux biker writer always at the call though no admittance, transmits recognition of what feels like martian love at collision where no rocks were hit but rifts roared and wracked the soaring sky, pyres and stars reflected in moist eyes at night with even gentle wind or slight breeze, these fragments of us chipped off at cycle's start darkness whether live or lie, do not comply to be cautious when the very thought, though heavy, brings loft for the weighted bevy of ties that chain what happiness we weep to celebrate.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 6:55 AM UTC
October Air Is Balsam Unction
Applied On Weary Wounded Year
It Sifts The Sorrow, Stops The Pity
Warms Me Full As Cider Smeared
October Counts Itself A Seeker
Healing Memories All Mangled
Of The Shiest & The Weakest
Fallow But For Pumpkins Dear
October Rains Run Ripe & Heavy
Soothing, Calming All Necessity
Urging Onward Waning Sunlight
Naught Of Judgment In Their Bevy
October Grounds Feed Harvest Bounty
They Plumb & Sanctify The Hungry
Reaping What The Earth Spewed Upward
Showing Stars In Shadows Clear
October Dies As Spirited Singers
Mark What Mortal Meaning Lingers
While I Fear The Outward Wicked
October Lulls My Demons Near–
October Keeps & Holds Me Here.
Oct 10, 2015
Oct 10, 2015 at 2:05 AM UTC
Muscles strain with the effort, each one
fit to burst from this skin in protest of the
things I do for you.
When I saw you falling by I couldn’t
help but to throw out my arm for you
to grab. I will anchor you to safety.
Sometimes I think that this act,
rescuing you, is all I know.
A toast!
To those buildings from our lives
which at times meant so much,
and how we saw them torn down.
To those people, who we loved and
hated and ignored and couldn’t be
away from, and to how we stood
by to see them torn apart.
A toast to the rips and tears.
When I’m not around, and this dark world
looms like death about your aspect,
how do you go on?
Do you have a bevy of pretenders,
waiting in the wings to assume the mantle
of hero for you, at your beck and call?
I think not.
No, the state that I always find you in.
Teetering on oblivion. Breathing in your
own acrid impending ruin.
A toast!
To the victimless crimes that always
find themselves a victim.
To the altruist with ulterior motives.
To the new car with seven hundred miles on it.
A toast to the rut I find you in.
How could I do anything other than rebuild you?
I sit and cobble you from the heart break
you discovered on your path to forget or forgo.
With delicate hands and loose calculations
I will rend you into a form that resembles
yourself, and when I am done I will
walk away.
You have never once thanked me.
A toast!
To the victimless victim of
self inflicted crime.
To those torn down and made whole
again.
To buildings wrecked and replaced.
To the occasional altruist with
understandable ulterior motives.
May 28, 2011
May 28, 2011 at 6:27 PM UTC
*from the depths of my being
i shout that i shall indeed be king
and forever banish banality
in a move that has finality
the things in my unending quest
are a constant reminder of the test
they tell me my fires to quench
until there's none of that stench
from perched vantage points
that even holy saints would envy
i see this walking and talking bevy
of lovelies selling sweet taunts
and i know it's time to quench a thirst
its time not to demure and come first
that itch that has troubled me long
now makes me feel that i belong
to the bemused new brigade of seekers
the ones who are thinkers but not speakers
they that from afar smell the deep oasis
whenever there's a deepening crisis
so dear life incarnate, dear essence of breath
stand me now and forever in good stead
give me the strained juice that cools my tongue
and thus help me in perpetuity to quench a thirst*
Sep 19, 2016
Sep 19, 2016 at 11:02 AM UTC
He’d go to the Square each afternoon
And sit on a bench, near me,
The one that stood in the shaded gloom
Of a brooding maple tree,
He’d roll his brolly and doff his hat
And scatter his bits of bread,
Then when the Keeper would tut, he’d say,
‘The Starlings have to be fed!’
He’d watch them come in a darkening cloud
And scare the sparrows away,
Then sit and listen to what had risen
At this loose end of the day.
He’d sit and nod, and he’d take it in
As if he could understand,
This Starling patter that passed as chatter
Concerning the world of man.
I never once saw him take a note
Or even record the sound,
He didn’t acknowledge the presence there
Of anyone else around,
He totally focussed on what they’d say
And **** his ear to their cries,
Then nod and smile in the strangest way
And shake his head at their lies.
Then after dark he would walk the park
And head for the studio,
That one dim lamp on the outer wall
Would show him the way to go,
And once inside you would hear him slide
On up to the microphone,
Where he’d tell his tales of success and fails
In a drawn-out monotone.
But you never felt a part of the tale
You were always shut outside,
Peering in from a ledge or bin
With a window open wide,
Then sometimes you were looking down
On the action from on high,
It could be from the bough of a tree
Or a wing in the azure sky.
He must have muttered a thousand tales
Of brooding, joy and despair,
The type of roles that would feed the souls
Of the folk who listened there.
They were light as vim, they were dark and grim
They were sown like seeds in the night,
And at the end, a beating of wings
As a bevy of birds took flight.
He entertains through the winter months
With a new tale every eve,
But stops as soon as the Spring comes in,
As the Starlings begin to leave.
They all return to their northern climes
With their tales to their Viking den,
While he will wait on the same park bench
For the winter to come again.
David Lewis Paget
Apr 28, 2015
Apr 28, 2015 at 11:08 AM UTC
she is waiting outside baggage claim
in blue jeans and a sweatshirt that says **** YALE
she is texting, frowning without wrinkles
her hair a thick braid to the small of her back
even among the smell of jet fuel and diesel fumes
her hair the scent of cedar smoke, campfires
picture it as a long furry tail
a meerkat, they’re cute, they’re carnivores
she stares at oncoming cars
she hops on one foot
I bet she’s really smart, really nice
she has an LL Bean backpack on rollers and a floral garment bag
she turns to me and asks
“Will you watch my bags? I need to ***
before I can answer she dashes in short steps
now I notice tall heels below frayed cuffs
the heels lift her *** nice ***
but she’s younger than my daughter
she trusts me, I feel elevated
she’s gone so long
the pack on wheels, could it be a bomb?
and me standing, guarding
leering old creep nominated to be smithereens of pink spray
but she looked sweet in an intellectual touchy-feely way
no lipstick, no eyeliner
I appreciate girls with no makeup
and nobody puts bombs in a garment bag,
totally against the bombing code
look there sticking out of a pocket of the backpack
a copy of a book, holy ****
my novel that went out of print thirty-seven years ago
which is twice her age
there was soft down above her lip, meerkat fuzz
my portrait on the back cover, a younger hairy me
did she see?
when she returns I will speak kindly
a bevy of bluebirds will fly from my lips to her ears
an SUV stops, a burly man in coat and sloppy tie steps out
opens the tailgate, throws the portmanteau inside
then the backpack with the book
should I stop him?
“Are you sure you have the right bags?”
I ask somewhat unassertively
the man looks at me like he’s bitten lime
and says, **** Yale?”
and I nod okay
and just then she bursts out the door breathless
hugs the burly man
not a glance to me, not a thank you for guarding the bags
she hops into the shotgun seat
the words I hear her say:
“Finally, at last!”
May 7, 2016
May 7, 2016 at 1:42 PM UTC
(a quid pro quo plug for zaftig women)
women that tip weigh ling needle to spin vicious circle
akin to puppy chasing her/his tail
or require digital scale,
at the extreme alt right registering heavy
ba Jill 'en Jack knifed pail loads
whether young or old ought to be appreciated
not waifer thin self starved as a rail,
instead they suffer unfair injustice
like a trapped quivering quail
thus this fatalistic, generic,
and holistic landlubber
wanted to point head lee
hammer home one secure
heterosexual ******* stronger than
omnipotent Marcy's Playground
weather beaten pail
Trent Reznor's sixty 9 inch rust free steel nail
into the coffin of bias
against bevy of beautiful babes
within the mind of this male,
who inherited genetic predisposition
for being average, hearty and hale
yet feel compassion for those engaged
in an ongoing with battle of the bulge,
hmm... perhaps hiding ample *****
akin to milky sopping wet grail
or accepted unequivocally themselves
without envy of lithesome women,
who seem to possess flair with nary a flail
yet possess much love to avail,
and tis wise to love oneself unconditionally
despite premium aesthetics considered svelte
which mass media accentuates de facto spelt
definition of femininity aka runway models
donned in faux animal pelt
whose deliberate self exhibition
prompts madding crowd of man
to waggle tongue with slack jaws
as if ready to melt
or at instantaneous signal telepathically felt
drop drawers upon removing blackbelt.
Jul 14, 2018
Jul 14, 2018 at 6:03 PM UTC
There’s a bench in the park across from my house. It sits atop a spiralling path on a hill, and it oversees everything. I would sit there every night watching the bevy of swans take flight at one end of the pound just to come swooping down at the other. Their take off’s just like planes: momentum is gathered until that vital second when they lift, and I would almost feel the sensation in my stomach as they did so. Such beautiful creatures. It baffles me how someone has a claim to them: “ They are mine. All mine”, she says without saying.
One night, with nothing but the moon lit reflecting off the ripples of the pond, I sat there watching the swans. A group of young men dressed in a deathly black appeared, moving swiftly to the pond. I watched them split up and try and round the swans up like they were sheep. They struggled at first, but eventually they grabbed one and bagged it.
I guess that’s the problem with ownership.
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 4:50 AM UTC
Of nature's pairing hearts that love renowned
shall I compare the depths of those duets
to virtues won, betrothed and then have bound
this noble cause and gift, that none forgets.
As doves through ether, we ascend delights
no frost shall haze the wings on truest path
tho' wind and rain befits the winter nights,
near maple leaves we warm; as singles bath.
The Swans devout will glide the lakes unknown
we two abound, prevailed by mantras vows
and when apart in bevy we have flown
shall wait till night when lovers dance allows.
As rare as diamonds forged for cupids' stone
is love we found alike - the emblems own.
Aug 19, 2018
Aug 19, 2018 at 12:55 PM UTC
She wore a cauliflower dress on her ballerina bones
and a stare that would avert a devil’s gaze.
Her legs were swinging to a three-four time daydream of tomorrow
as she looked out over the park where she grew up.
The black ink pond water shivered as the moonlight
danced upon her and made her feel awkward in her movement.
Then she took off her clothes and went swimming in the dark,
and went under never to come up.
She did this once a week.
And a bevy of swans cried, laughing in the night
with a much-a-do about nothing in their voice.
Eight white dresses swimming without care,
over where she did the Houdini, moon-soaked routine.
Mar 18, 2017
Mar 18, 2017 at 8:57 AM UTC
Something about gunfire.
Somebody says religion.
It’s an opportunity for the TV
to screen the same scenes,
the blinking blue and reds
of a bevy of cop cars
and the spooling headline
that assumes, then confirms
the worst.
And so strangers from all corners
spew their pennies’ worth
like bees fumbling for honey,
thousands of hypotheses
replete with exclamation marks,
the name of a Floridian city
swelling as a violet bruise
in the aftershock,
plunged into uninvited limelight.
The chief claims a ‘lone-wolf’ attack,
a man who loathed rainbows
then wiped his own life.
Talk swiftly turns to guns,
the increasing frequency
of wicked bloodshed,
the how, the why, the ‘this day and age’
and ‘the world isn’t safe’
and the nothing, still nothing is done.
Just one night before,
another tragedy,
a young singer shot
while signing their name,
fans left to clasp
the musical remnants
of a life snatched away,
the acerbic word ******
in a nonsensical second.
Something so horrid
became something so common.
How many more gunshots
must shatter a night?
How many more families
must crumple like newspapers
peppered with headlines of the recently lost?
They are asking for answers.
We wait for them to come.
Jun 12, 2016
Jun 12, 2016 at 4:47 PM UTC
The bridge to my ole factory
Crumbled under the fury
Of 70 stenches times 2
That welcomed me back to the Garden City in '06
The high priest of higher learning
and fulfillment
Had lured me away
For a few decades
And the wheels of time
Kept turning and turning
Along the long grinding road
To that elusive greener sanctuary of lore,
The El Dorado of every wide-eyed
Immigrant to foreign shores
A fat black cat floated sideways in the gutter
Between a bevy of fruit vendors,
Bloated by the pungent gases of death;
It was still there when I returned,
5 days later
The roads all seemed to have shrunk,
Overwhelmed by a tsunami
of trucks, cars and mini vans;
All in a rush,
Running late to their own funerals
I gave the driver a few extra dollars
To slow down;
I wanted to be on time
For mine
Feeling like a stranger
In my own backyard,
I scanned the crowded marketplace
For one familiar face
To ask about the dead black cat
floating in the gutter
"He used to run things around here," she said
"Back when rats were shy and scared;
But times have changed
And these new rats have no fear."
And they don't care about clean gutters either.....
~ P (Pablo)
(6/24/2013)
Aug 3, 2013
Aug 3, 2013 at 5:45 PM UTC