"bureau" poems
Lady, your room is lousy with flowers.
When you kick me out, that's what I'll remember,
Me, sitting here bored as a loepard
In your jungle of wine-bottle lamps,
Velvet pillows the color of blood pudding
And the white china flying fish from Italy.
I forget you, hearing the cut flowers
Sipping their liquids from assorted pots,
Pitchers and Coronation goblets
Like Monday drunkards. The milky berries
Bow down, a local constellation,
Toward their admirers in the tabletop:
Mobs of eyeballs looking up.
Are those petals of leaves you've paried with them ---
Those green-striped ovals of silver tissue?
The red geraniums I know.
Friends, friends. They stink of armpits
And the invovled maladies of autumn,
Musky as a lovebed the morning after.
My nostrils prickle with nostalgia.
Henna hags:cloth of your cloth.
They tow old water thick as fog.
The roses in the Toby jug
Gave up the ghost last night. High time.
Their yellow corsets were ready to split.
You snored, and I heard the petals unlatch,
Tapping and ticking like nervous fingers.
You should have junked them before they died.
Daybreak discovered the bureau lid
Littered with Chinese hands. Now I'm stared at
By chrysanthemums the size
Of Holofernes' head, dipped in the same
Magenta as this fubsy sofa.
In the mirror their doubles back them up.
Listen: your tenant mice
Are rattling the ******* packets. Fine flour
Muffles their bird feet: they whistle for joy.
And you doze on, nose to the wall.
This mizzle fits me like a sad jacket.
How did we make it up to your attic?
You handed me gin in a glass bud vase.
We slept like stones. Lady, what am I doing
With a lung full of dust and a tongue of wood,
Knee-deep in the cold swamped by flowers?
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Musings of a Police Reporter in the Identification Bureau
You have loved forty women, but you have only one thumb.
You have led a hundred secret lives, but you mark only
one thumb.
You go round the world and fight in a thousand wars and
win all the world's honors, but when you come back
home the print of the one thumb your mother gave
you is the same print of thumb you had in the old
home when your mother kissed you and said good-by.
Out of the whirling womb of time come millions of men
and their feet crowd the earth and they cut one anothers'
throats for room to stand and among them all
are not two thumbs alike.
Somewhere is a Great God of Thumbs who can tell the
inside story of this.
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The *** Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat:
If you offer him pheasant he would rather have grouse.
If you put him in a house he would much prefer a flat,
If you put him in a flat then he’d rather have a house.
If you set him on a mouse then he only wants a rat,
If you set him on a rat then he’d rather chase a mouse.
Yes the *** Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat—
And there isn’t any call for me to shout it:
For he will do
As he do do
And there’s no doing anything about it!
The *** Tum Tugger is a terrible bore:
When you let him in, then he wants to be out;
He’s always on the wrong side of every door,
And as soon as he’s at home, then he’d like to get about.
He likes to lie in the bureau drawer,
But he makes such a fuss if he can’t get out.
Yes the *** Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat—
And there isn’t any use for you to doubt it:
For he will do
As he do do
And there’s no doing anything about it!
The *** Tum Tugger is a curious beast:
His disobliging ways are a matter of habit.
If you offer him fish then he always wants a feast;
When there isn’t any fish then he won’t eat rabbit.
If you offer him cream then he sniffs and sneers,
For he only likes what he finds for himself;
So you’ll catch him in it right up to the ears,
If you put it away on the larder shelf.
The *** Tum Tugger is artful and knowing,
The *** Tum Tugger doesn’t care for a cuddle;
But he’ll leap on your lap in the middle of your sewing,
For there’s nothing he enjoys like a horrible muddle.
Yes the *** Tum Tugger is a Curious Cat—
And there isn’t any need for me to spout it:
For he will do
As he do do
And theres no doing anything about it!
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~ ~ (on front of envelope)
La lettre que voici, ô bon facteur,
Portez-la jusqu'à la ville de NICE,
Aux ALPES-MARITIMES (06).
Donnez-la, s'il vous plaît, au Receveur
Des Postes, au bureau de NOTRE DAME.
(Son nom? C'est MONSIEUR LUCIEN COQUELLE.
Faut-il vraiment que je vous le rappelle?)
Cette lettre est pour lui et pour sa femme.
I won't lead English postmen such a dance;
Just speed this letter on its way to FRANCE.
Sender's address you'll find on the reverse.
~ ~ (and on the back)
At Number 7 in St Swithun's Road,
Kennington, Oxford, there is the abode
Of me, Paul Hansford, writer of this verse.
- - - - - - - - - - - - -
For non-speakers of French, the first bit goes approximately -
"Dear Postman, Please take this letter to the town of Nice, in the département of Alpes-Maritimes, and give it to the postmaster at the Notre-Dame office. (His name? It's Lucien Coquelle. Do I really need to remind you?) This letter is for him and his wife."
May 20, 2016
May 20, 2016 at 3:23 PM UTC
With a warm load of folded laundry under my chin
I head toward Daniel’s sock drawer
Pulling on the carefully crafted handle I see
My grandfather cutting and planning the cherry tree
Dropped by Hurricane Carol in 1954
Wood shavings fall about his work boots as he
Shapes each panel, never using a ruler, all by eye
Boxing the frame, sizing the drawers, sanding surfaces
By hand, hence 60 years of grandkids and great grandkids socks
The drawer closes effortlessly with a sound
Of living heirlooms and heritage
Of legacy and family
A sound that everything is safe inside
That memorials are made to last
Apr 22, 2015
Apr 22, 2015 at 8:55 AM UTC
Andi Balise combined a half page of a short story, “Thanks Going Without Saying” by Liz Balise, with half a page of an essay by Klee, “On Modern Art”, from a book called Modern Artists on Art, 10 Unabridged Essays, edited by Robert L. Herbert. With some small edits and line-breaks comes this miracle of a poem:
Painting a Function Different
I peek out over the railing of reality’s magic
Beyond the porch-floor
Minerva hangs her wash
making the invisible visible
Eighty two and three quarters deaf
she doesn’t notice
But this is, in fact, reality
Has always been this way—
Bent and bird-like existence
Balanced on two twigs—always busy—
Her task, is the *********** of space
Cutting coupons, crushing aluminum cans, ironing
The three phenomena which I must....
Things no one notices—
climbing on the abstract surface of a picture
Switching the curtains
God! I wish from the infinity of space..she wouldn’t…!
It figures that—
Rusty, her cat, is weaving in fortune or misfortune
I try to fix them—
Her ankles now
And she curses at accidental quality
from the corner of her mouth
which has only one form
Clothespin or cigarette?
Long johns and animals and men in heaven
and bureau scarf and sheets—all, non-infinite deities
surround us translucent, contained
I decide what to get for her birthday—
We are good friends
through painting a function different
For me?
Predestined necessity.
Minerva?
forgets her manners
and eats like a survivor—
Thanks going without saying.
Oct 7, 2017
Oct 7, 2017 at 2:12 PM UTC
the preacher never wrote a poem
about dahmer's baptism:
1.
he leaned across
the jail cell table
and his eyes were honest
when he said he believed in god
deeply
his eyes were honest
when he said goodnight honey
and gently draped his body
in a tub of sulfuric acid
his open jaw glistening in the moon
dissolving in the dusty noontime soliloquy
of crickets outside his apartment window
2.
can an honest man
bathe in those kind of wounds
and be allowed to ask
for a penance?
3.
for two weeks they left
his baptismal robes in storage
they asked if he really believed it
if he could believe in all this
4.
“when i was a kid
i was just like anybody else”
he had said
he seemed to think
being like anybody else
could dull the bloodstains
reduce the skeletons
still tucked into his closet
to powder
make his wishes into holy water
5.
yes jeffrey, anyone can drink it
but getting drunk on holiness
isn’t enough to repent
all of their fingers are wrapped around
your heart
doesn’t forgetting seem foolish
to the brains in your refrigerator
isn’t it just useless
to the spare ribs, in your bureau
drink all the holy water you want
you will always carry their bodies
on your chest
have you ever had a heart
other than the ones you collected
and did you ever know
what a soul feels like?
6.
and that day
they took him to a prison tub
and his body
glistened under the water
like a drowning animal or a martyr
jeffrey doesn’t float
7.
as he opens his eyes
his mouth wide
he looks just like him
suspended in white
ripples curdling in currents across his pale skin
a solar eclipse
covers the sun
as he comes up
for air
Sep 4, 2012
Sep 4, 2012 at 9:44 PM UTC
He worked at the War Department,
in the Munitions Ministry,
for the Bureau of Cannon Fodder
on the Condolence Committee.
“On behalf of George, our king,
and the grieving British nation
We regret to have to share with you
the following information….”
Passchendaele was at its height,
he’d written letters by the score.
On the Altars of Incompetence,
what’s a hundred thousand more?
It was the sort of sinecure
in which he took a certain pride:
Informing British parents
that their darling boys had died.
His department heads approved
of his selfless dedication,
recording for posterity
each man’s final destination.
Thus it was they failed to notice
when he received a telegram.
That day he went back to his flat
a changed and broken man..
When next day, his chair was empty,
and they received a telegram,
they were grieved to be informed:
He’d died by his own hand.
“On behalf of George, our king,
and the grieving British nation
I regret to have to share with you
the following information….”
Jan 24, 2012
Jan 24, 2012 at 1:24 AM UTC
from a point of ignorance, or perhaps from
a point of common sense...
listening to
jan lamprecht talking
about apartheid in south africa, and how,
apparently, the idea was to create
a poly-state solution, or what would
have been a federation, akin to u.s.a.,
now, i already said, from the point of
ignorance, or perhaps from a common sense...
let's not read too much at this point
for the sake of argument...
if that was really going to happen?
that there were white states, and there were
black states,
but somehow, they managed to work
together...
i'm looking at the map of south africa
right now...
now...
in europe, you have countries
that are land-locked, and we just call them that...
but i'm looking at the map...
and the apartheid beginnings, which
would rather seem obvious to the eye...
wouldn't apartheid have been stalled
once lesotho & suazi emerged?
surely these areas weren't the spartan 300
akin and never being colonised...
it's a "poem", it's not a history book,
i don't feel like i need to be right
or wrong, or need to constantly rely
on precision of facts to write, constantly making
references...
i'm working from: word of mouth,
from someone who was there...
but i can't really imagine either lesotho
or suazi being so ****** resistent to british
rule...
to me, they were the beginning results
of the apartheid project to create
the s.a.f. the south african federation,
federation meaning: there's already a whole,
now we need to cut it up, but retain the original
whole...
united states?
how would you establish
that, if not through a civil war?
it's still a federation,
the f.s.a. ha ha, imagine the chants...
f.s.a.! f.s.a.! no ring to it without
there's a federal bank, right?
federal this that and, of course,
x-files & federal bureau of investivgation.
like i already said, i'm not going to look
into the origins of lesotho & suazi,
as other than from the project apartheid...
and i'll only cite one realiable source:
jan lamprecht...
it's the tongue on the ground (boots too),
and if he doesn't know what he's talking,
how can some historian, in a stuffy library in
england tell me what is and what isn't true?
Jun 19, 2017
Jun 19, 2017 at 6:33 PM UTC
Deathbed Confession
“In 1971 a man calling himself Dan Cooper hijacked
a plane from Portland to Seattle, demanded parachutes
and $200,000 in cash, then jumped into the night with
the money, never to be seen again.” — fbi.gov
So little seemed to be at stake.
The bomb was real; the threat was fake.
Neither was difficult to make.
And I was in my element,
or almost there. Yes, the descent
was cold, but warmer as I went,
and yes it was coal black and raining,
but I had uppers and my training.
I’ve spent my whole life not complaining.
When I could see the woods I wandered
out with the twenties, which I laundered,
safety-deposited, and squandered,
and with the oddest thing — a name
I’d paid for but could never claim,
a private riddle, private fame.
That’s been the hardest part: denial —
remaining of no interest while
the Bureau opened up a file
on every former paratrooper
who in his final morphine stupor
discovered he was D.B. Cooper.
I’m D.B. Cooper. There, I said it.
It’s decent work if you can get it,
but it pays cash. There is no credit,
or blame, or pity in thin air,
and I’ve spent forty winters there.
I’ll take whatever you can spare,
although I don’t suppose the guy
whose last confession is a lie
deserves it any less than I.
This piece is written by Kansas Poet Laureate Henry McHenry. The rights to the poem are completely his.
Oct 23, 2015
Oct 23, 2015 at 10:44 PM UTC
The moon in the bureau mirror
looks out a million miles
(and perhaps with pride, at herself,
but she never, never smiles)
far and away beyond sleep, or
perhaps she's a daytime sleeper.
By the Universe deserted,
she'd tell it to go to hell,
and she'd find a body of water,
or a mirror, on which to dwell.
So wrap up care in a cobweb
and drop it down the well
into that world inverted
where left is always right,
where the shadows are really the body,
where we stay awake all night,
where the heavens are shallow as the sea
is now deep, and you love me.
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Midnight on I 80
passing by Truckee
heading East
towards the lights of old Reno.
The snow starts blowing
around Floristan,
Sierra Nevada
winter
following me
all the way down.
I'm looking for a big truck
to
get behind.
Riding on the crying road
every
Sunday night.
Wondering
if I am creating
gratitude or regrets
for
my future self's past.
What am I doing?
I left you on a January night
chasing love
in a blue moon light.
Stuck between desire
and
staying home.
I don't know what's true
what's true with me
what's true with you.
I'm stuck behind this wheel
snowy anxiety
ringing on through,
what am I doing?
what are you doing?
Creating
gratitude or regrets
for
your future self.
Will the adjustment bureau
come on through?
Or
will
I like you
make it all up as I go along
with the window steaming up,
Art Bell on the radio
Coast to Coast
the sounds of ghosts.
Will I hate myself
for
being my self
or
look back with eyes
sparkling with gratitude
and
the wonder of who I was
I doubt it,
don't you?
Now as I write this poem
with my life
together and asunder
will I look
back with gratitude
or regret?
As I hit Fourth Street
the clouds have parted
stars are shining through,
I'm no longer crying
the crying road is done.
I still do not know what I have begun.
Oct 12, 2014
Oct 12, 2014 at 3:03 PM UTC
(To JS/07/M/378/ This Marble Monument
Is Erected by the State)
He was found by the Bureau of Statistics to be
One against whom there was no official complaint,
And all the reports on his conduct agree
That, in the modern sense of an old-fashioned word, he was a
saint,
For in everything he did he served the Greater Community.
Except for the War till the day he retired
He worked in a factory and never got fired
But satisfied his employers, Fudge Motors Inc.
Yet he wasn't a scab or odd in his views,
For his Union reports that he paid his dues,
(Our report on his Union shows it was sound)
And our Social Psychology workers found
That he was popular with his mates and liked a drink.
The Press are convinced that he bought a paper every day
And that his reactions to advertisements were normal in every
way.
Policies taken out in his name prove that he was fully insured,
And his Health-card shows he was once in hospital but left it
cured.
Both Producers Research and High-Grade Living declare
He was fully sensible to the advantages of the Installment Plan
And had everything necessary to the Modern Man,
A phonograph, a radio, a car and a frigidaire.
Our researchers into Public Opinion are content
That he held the proper opinions for the time of year;
When there was peace, he was for peace: when there was war,
he went.
He was married and added five children to the population,
Which our Eugenist says was the right number for a parent of
his generation.
And our teachers report that he never interfered with their
education.
Was he free? Was he happy? The question is absurd:
Had anything been wrong, we should certainly have heard.
2.1k
I ASKED the Mayor of Gary about the 12-hour day and the 7-day week.
And the Mayor of Gary answered more workmen steal time on the job in Gary than any other place in the United States.
"Go into the plants and you will see men sitting around doing nothing-machinery does everything," said the Mayor of Gary when I asked him about the 12-hour day and the 7-day week.
And he wore cool cream pants, the Mayor of Gary, and white shoes, and a barber had fixed him up with a shampoo and a shave and he was easy and imperturbable though the government weather bureau thermometer said 96 and children were soaking their heads at bubbling fountains on the street corners.
And I said good-by to the Mayor of Gary and I went out from the city hall and turned the corner into Broadway.
And I saw workmen wearing leather shoes scruffed with fire and cinders, and pitted with little holes from running molten steel,
And some had bunches of specialized muscles around their shoulder blades hard as pig iron, muscles of their fore-arms were sheet steel and they looked to me like men who had been somewhere.Gary, Indiana, 1915.
1.8k
Melimeliye; This page is hurt. Women. More (5), dry, dry. In 2016 and 15 years as a physician, the ********** and the physician. "In the Philippines." However, there is life? "This is the best way to the car." For example, between January 1 and January 1: 100: 100 in January and 100: in January to within 60 days after the changes were made in Saudi Arabia. In 2016, Azerbaijan, Algeria, Libya, Lebanon, Mexico, Syria and Palestine. For example, Fiji, South America and North America, Perth, California, United States. Yasmin - 6: 7 201 new *** / AIDS / Glory 25: US and UK are in the chart. The Greeks. We are very happy to be able to fix the problem. Although it is very cold in the United States is good. Not at all. But fears. 1, bright light. 16: 60 60 16 16 16 16 16 year to 60-year-old tešet'ehānyi. Father wise, intelligent and wise one. For example, the dead man. Some judges. Another California, California, Saudi Arabia, South Africa, July 2016, 100 7 7 7 77 years old and doctors. There are many benefits. This means that 2016, 2016, 2017; This is the world. Syria, Palestine, the United States, Britain, Sierra Leone. Muhammad and Yasmin še.ā. 7, 2016; New *** / Infection 1000/1000/ out of 1000 / Peter's deyidi diet / of bowling. Talk to encourage language. 1 victory in Northern Mali. The first sale. The punch than the women of the world. (5) In the - to the - your hair. In 2016, 15 years ago, and the doctor, the ********** and the physician. "Philippines, Judith." This should not be the matter? "This is the best way to the car." And the Moon. For example, on July 1, the German words. Saudi Arabia, Saudi Arabia, Saudi Arabia, Saudi Arabia, Mexico, Palestine, Saudi Arabia, Saudi Arabia, Mexico, Palestine, Saudi Arabia and Syria in 2016 and in Rwanda, Fiji North America and South America, United States of America, Hannah, 6.7 201 HIV/AIDS ... 25: in the United States, the UK, the Bureau - was involved and working in the pumpkin bebirich'ilewi. 1. Reducing crime rivers and streams Switch permanently weak ... ... friends in the world is very cold and ice for the first time in the world Note 16 16 60 60 16 16 16 60: one hundred years and more than a hundred years is too complex, for example grace and the grace of God, which is in fact nothing else in the inner court of the lakes. The State of California is under attack. Germany, indeed. Saudi Arabia, South Africa 7 7 77 100 2016 and leader. Important. For example, in 2017, Syria, UK, USA, in Sierra Leone, 2016, 2017, 2017, 2017 7 Yasmin Annan for *** / 1000/1000 / S / pitch / air. The message said in Baghdad
Nov 28, 2018
Nov 28, 2018 at 9:09 PM UTC
They said she suffered from visions, so
They locked her up in her room,
I heard her pacing the floor in there
To softly cry in the gloom,
Her food they slid in under the door
And that’s when I heard her shout:
‘You can’t keep me forever in here,
You must let my nightmares out!’
But a doctor listened outside the door
And shook his head as he went,
A Priest then wafted some incense in
And muttered a sacrament,
But no-one dared to unlock the door
For they’d heard a howl within,
‘She must be conjuring demons there
Or some terrible type of sin.’
At night when everyone was asleep
I’d put my head to the floor,
And whisper low to my sister through
The gap, just under the door.
‘Go find the key,’ she would say to me,
‘And unlock the door in the night,
We’ll creep on out while the house is still,
Take off while the Moon is bright.’
I didn’t know where to find the key,
I didn’t know where it was,
It wasn’t hung up on the kitchen hook
Or the nail in the wooden cross.
She begged me, ‘Keep on looking for it,
It’s the only chance for me,
Then we will be together again
At last, and finally free!’
But then her visions returned again
And lights shone under the door,
While sounds, like animals caught in pain
Built up to a sullen roar.
I whispered, ‘Sis, can you hear me now,
I’m scared,’ and started to bawl,
She cried, ‘There’s lights and a million things
All creeping out of the wall.’
I went to beat on our parent’s door
But I heard my father snore,
I ran downstairs and I found the key
They’d hid in the bureau drawer.
I hesitated before I turned
The key in my sister’s lock,
The door swung open and lay ajar
As I stood, stock-still in shock.
For in the room was a wooded glade
With creepers clogging the walls,
Bats were hung from the old lampshade,
The bed was a waterfall,
But of my sister, never a sign
She must have been lost in the trees,
But monsters struggled out of the wall
As I fell in dread to my knees.
They say I suffer from visions, so
They’ve locked me up in my room,
I couldn’t cope with my sister’s loss
They said, but she’s in a tomb.
I know she’s not, for I hear her whisper
Under the door at night,
‘We’ll creep on out while the house is still,
Take off while the Moon is bright.’
Then sounds, like animals caught in pain
Build up to a sullen roar,
I call for her, again and again,
‘Just get the key to the door.’
But then she fades, and she slips away,
So far that I have to shout:
‘You can’t keep me forever in here,
You must let my nightmares out!’
David Lewis Paget
May 23, 2014
May 23, 2014 at 4:28 AM UTC
Six years I worked in a knitting mill at a machine
And then I married Jerry, the iceman, for a change.
He weighed 240 pounds, and could hold me,
Who weighed 105 pounds, outward easily with one hand.
He came home drunk and lay on me with the breath of stale
beer
Blowing from him and jumbled talk that didn't mean anything.
I stood it two years and one hot night when I refused him
And he struck his bare fist against my nose so it bled,
I waited till he slept, took a revolver from a bureau drawer,
Placed the end of it to his head and pulled the trigger.
From the stone walls where I am incarcerated for the natural
term
Of life, I proclaim I would do it again.
1.7k
she came from a broken home
where the parents at each other
would throw stones.
every day they would argue, bicker
and fight, all the way till the night.
not realizing their Childs plight.
the child to them in turn would scream
but in the battle she was not seen.
from her father she had ****** abuse
fighting with him, was of no use.
he forced himself upon her at a very young age
from there on, her life would never be the same.
living in fear of what he would do
and who she could turn to.
where could she go
the judicial system moves very slow.
when she had told her mother.
her mother said it could never be
why would he go with you
when he has me?
she knew then, that she would have to leave
and with her being gone, no one would grieve.
she would pack her bags, with everything
she owned, and on the road she would go.
with tears in her eyes, she walked out
the door, to return never more.
and as she got to the swinging gate
her mother screamed to her
but it was too late.
on her dresser bureau, her mother found this note.
you gave birth to me, and brought me
into this world, and you had always said
that I was your little girl.
but when I told you what had happened to me
you laughed and turned your back on me.
so now I am leaving, because I can not
continue this abuse, don't look for me, it will be of no use.
I love you mom, for you are my mother
just watch out for my little brother.
I am a child from a broken home
and I know that I’m not alone.
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 10:48 AM UTC
The clickety clackety
of my mother's bureau always
started school mornings.
My rumpled clothes lay in a heap
by my feet.
Sweet lemon-water perfume stings
my nostrils, and piercing sunlight
winks through the shades.
Good morning, morning,
sing me a song
about dew-kissed lilies,
brewing coffee,
a jogger's
labored breathing,
and a sparrow's jittery chirp.
Jun 9, 2010
Jun 9, 2010 at 12:23 PM UTC
She was an old Mid-western woman.
She was a distinct type.
A stock-staple character,
Sort of half Beverly Hillbillies Granny,
Throw in a skosh Betty White,
Mixed in with a lot of that old lady
In Driving Miss Daisy.
Southern Indiana:
The Confederacy’s best kept secret.
But I digress.
She was my neighbor in Buckeye, Arizona,
A quaint agrarian township, way out
At the west end of Maricopa County, which is
An hour from the Phoenix airport, the so-called
Sky Harbor International Airport,
Which surely must be near the list’s top:
All-time most pretentious,
Hyperbolic Chamber of Commerce,
Municipal Boosterisms.
Wikipedia English - The Free Encyclopedia
Boosterism: the act of "boosting" (or promoting) a town, city, or organization, with the goal of improving public perception of it. Boosting can be as simple as "talking up" the entity at a party or as elaborate as establishing a visitors' bureau. It has been somewhat associated with American small towns. Boosting is also done in political settings, especially in regard to disputed policies or controversial events.
So, without thinking,
Walking down the driveway
To pick up the morning paper,
I let it slip:
“How are you?”
She’s leaning over the hedge,
As I bend down,
Picking up the local Pravda.
35 minutes later she sums up:
“I had to go to the doctor last night.
Gave me some cream for my pud.”
A twinkle in her eye—
She, my lascivious,
Old lady neighbor
In Buckeye, Arizona.
She had that sweet Mid-western thing
Working for her, her regional mojo.
And I’m right there on her wavelength:
The apple not falling far from my tree,
Or something like that . . .
I am losing my train of thought, here.
Last poem of the day, I guess.
May 21, 2014
May 21, 2014 at 8:50 PM UTC
1.
we all know versions
of people
we all know blips-
flickering tv screens
with constantly changing channels
on to the next, one after another
maybe this show will feel right
maybe this genre will fit
unsatisfied by the plot
in this episode
unfamiliar with the characters
on the screen
the lighting in this room isn't
quite right
eyes flickering in candlelight
skipping over the horror channel
very quickly
trying to move on to the love scene
2.
you talk about my body
like it is a puzzle we have to finish
i'm waiting for you to realize
it is actually a dress that
will never fit anyone
but being a puzzle gives me
some time, so i let you
piece together the edges
you create a faceless outline and
call it a beautiful frame
for a piece of art you
don't quite understand
3.
but i will never be the basillica
and i am not an augustine
it's impossible to drink
the wine from my insides
without being poisoned by it's strength
we have been fermenting for a long time
and the bread does not break because
it had already been broken
into too many small crumbs
i wonder if you're still hungry
4.
and i think about our houses
both scattered with wooden bits
of the eiffel tower and taj mahal
big ben in the bureau by the wall
the colosseum in the middle
of the kitchen table
sydney opera house suspended
from the ceiling of the bedroom
monuments to so many bodies
we sure like putting them together
but it's hard to find storage space
when you're done
5.
you take pictures to remember
how proud you once were
or sometimes just to seal them in a frame
frozen in time so that the next time
you see them standing in the doorway
like a degenerate masterpiece
you can touch the photograph in your wallet
Aug 19, 2013
Aug 19, 2013 at 3:42 PM UTC
In the East, the sun luminously gleamed
And bid the nebulous vapors fly
Changing the gloom into radiant blaze
Cheering the languid drowsy sky
Lying in bed, I looked around,
Saw my room so cozily set
With things just enough to make it fit
For a sweet haven for me to rest
Each little thing in it began to muse
In a language discernible for me to grasp
Of the secret of success so elusive to man
Which striving to catch, oft slips off his clasp
The clock ticking away at the wall
Alerted in a tone of rhythmic resonance
That ‘each minute is precious and dear’
And not to waste it in trifling appurtenance
While the ceiling fan, spiraling above
Discreetly hummed, “Be cool and do not fret”
The open window, to me did urge
To ‘look out far and watch the world in beat’
The mirror neatly fitted on my bureau
With a gleaming countenance beckoned me
Asking me to ‘reflect’, ere venturing into anything
That from fatal fallacies, I shall ever be free
The calendar hanging inside the room
Reminded me not to lag or put off things
But keep my assignments and learning up to date
That to great heights, I can soar on wings
And the woolly carpet gently mused;
“Bend your knees and kneel down to pray
With a heart copiously filled in gratitude
Before a God who didn’t leave you aimless to stray"
With such counsel, silent and salient
Got out of my bed with resolutions profound
To greet the morning and start the day
In greater zest with a mind, saner and sound
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 6:49 AM UTC
So varied are the hues of poetic pen,
With a multitude of exploding coloured ink,
In endless shades to choose from now, and then,
To set the writing mood, in which we sink.
Should I decide upon a nature write,
I must select just one of many greens,
To paint a woodland oil, in verse tonight,
Of lush green branches shading flowered scenes.
Humorous poems are best presented yellow,
The verses to be sunny, smiling bright,
This Irish poet not e'er a dour fellow,
To try extract a laugh from you, he might.
To pen dark verse, one must use darkest black,
Printed on a page of sombre grey,
The mood is set, no chance of stepping back,
The reader with sad tears, may have to pay.
Poems to my Love, are always delicate pink,
Verse from the heart, her eye to see words beat,
Fond lines penned madly now in perfumed ink,
Extracted from rose petals, for a treat.
****** verse scribed in pulsating red,
Throbbing, bulging blood to end in balm,
My pen grows hot with every word that's said,
Eventually burns to flames within my palm.
Finally if you poets e'er grace my home,
Feel free to take a seat, and ease your pains,
Relax at my bureau and pen a poem,
For it's ink not blood that flows inside our veins !
Apr 1, 2016
Apr 1, 2016 at 8:25 PM UTC
It was threatening rain for a week or more
It was always threatening rain,
The Weather Bureau was always sore
When the threatening rain never came.
We’d hold an open air barbecue
Each time they said it would come,
‘Hey it’s gonna rain,’ said Oliver Payne,
‘What do they think, we’re dumb?’
But the Bureau Chief, one Adrian Reef
Said he was sick to the core,
Why wouldn’t the weather behave itself
Like it had done before,
‘It’s making us look like a laughing stock,’
He bitterly said to Jane,
‘I want you to ring up the airport now
And charter a small, light plane,’
He loaded the plane up with dry ice
And a generous load of salt,
And lugged along an elephant gun,
The plane took off with a jolt,
He peppered the clouds with ice that day,
He put his job on the line,
The last thing he wanted to have to say:
‘The weather is going to be fine.’
And down on the ground at the barbecue
We were sizzling snags and steak,
Having an ice cold beer or two
And trying to stay awake.
The sultry weather was drowsy then
We’d heard the report, in vain,
But just when the steaks were nicely done
It came down, bucketing rain.
We didn’t have time to pack it up,
We couldn’t save snags or steak,
In only a couple of minutes there
We were staggering round in a lake,
And Oliver’s esky floated away
With the rest of the beer we’d bought,
While we took shelter as best we could
Under cover of Maggie’s porch.
The water rose right up to our knees,
Our cars were afloat that day,
The chickens drowned and the old hearth hound
Was found seven miles away,
While on the Teev was the Bureau Chief
With a grin that was not quite sane,
He knew he’d won with his elephant gun,
‘The sky is threatening rain!’
David Lewis Paget
Jan 9, 2015
Jan 9, 2015 at 2:04 PM UTC