"crates" poems
Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer
was leading a lonely life working nights
at the fukfoorfiffenfimmer factory
where he was in charge of loading crates
full of fukfoorfiffenfimmers, onto cargo cars destined for the city of Cincinnati.
There was such a huge demand for fukfoorfiffenfimmers in the city of Cincinnati,
poor Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer worked his hunnyhush to the bone.
On one of his few holiday weekends,
Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer went to a hair salon for a trim.
Here he was attended by a hairdresser named, Henrietta Huckhellopolis.
Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer instantly fell for the husky-voiced hairdresser.
Gaining enough gumption and gallasisgoppingguff needed to bypass beating around the bush of courteous courtship,
Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer asked Henrietta Huckhellopolis if she wanted to leerlumpaloomp later that evening.
"I would love to leerlumpaloomp later this evening," she replied, batting her long lashes lustily.
And how those two leerlumpaloomped!
They leerlumpaloomped long through the night.
They leerlumpaloomped so loudly,
the neighbours ended up sticking stuffystoils
into their sensilivities, in hopes of drowning out the noise.
Nine months later,
the lovers were blessed with a litter of lullaloonillies—wot with the loud leerlumpaloomping and all.
But, of the seven lullaloonillies, four of them had two lumpalots instead of one.
Bolstering himself against drowning in despair at the prospect of having sired freak lullaloonillies,
Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer helped design fukfoorfiffenfimmers especially meant for lullaloonillies who have two lumpalots instead of one.
As the double-lumpalot fukfoorfiffenfimmers
were Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer's idea, the owner of the fukfoorfiffenfimmer factory gave Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer
a forty percent cut of the royalties.
*Fortunately some fairy tales come with a happy ending, because the city of Cincinnati was hit with a record number of lullaloonillies
born with two lumpalots instead of just the one.
The high sales of double-lumpalot fukfoorfiffenfimmers,
enabled Harry Heironymous Huffenhoffer and Henrietta Huckhellopolis
to quit their jobs and buy into the fukfoorfiffenfimmer factory.
Yes, after getting married,
Harry Heironymous and Henrietta Huckhellopolis-Huffenhoffer
lived happily hever hafter.
So did the lullaloonillies....
including those with two lumpalots instead of one.*
Sep 6, 2011
Sep 6, 2011 at 1:16 PM UTC
They look out from the terrace.
At the borders of sight
live rocky hills behind brown
and golden and olive crop
under a cloudless sky.
BANG!
An artificial cloud.
“Mira,” she points, “Venga!”
They fly down stairs,
diving like sparrows
into the street.
Boys sprint across pavements and climb;
men vault over fences in time
for news to reach ears.
"¡Ya vienen!"
Excitement and fear.
The rattling of cow bells
and galloping nears.
Men bait and dodge horns
and escape through doors
and up and over
red wooden bars.
Sticks beat on the concrete ground
and closer, louder, gallops sound.
Seconds away –
until the last,
he side steps into a house;
indoors,
apart,
he runs through the foyer
and up the stairs
around a corner
with long strides
too fast to follow.
She chooses left and
sings soprano
when doors won't budge
and
it
crashes
in.
She turns and the fear is paralysing.
"FERMIN!"
"FERMIN!"
"FERMIN!"
He hurdles the stairs
and explodes
but it rams her
to and fro,
thrashing her head
against the wall
where horns
sin and gore
cement and brick.
He clasps the tail
and heaves its hide from
side to side as
hooves smash
crates of wine -
they slip and slide
in fractured glass;
he finds a horn
and yanks the head!
He's yanked instead
near dead before the men
arrive down stairs
to punch and kick it;
strike and stick it
smack and hit it;
'til it
fits and quits
and flees the foyer,
fast and frantic,
flying flustered
by the frenzy,
finally finding
pattering
paves
it
peters
off
down
the
street.
"¿Que ha pasado?
¿Quien ha sido?
¡El Balbotin
y la Chicha!
¡Que una vaca
les ha pillado!"
"¿Estas bien?"
Dizzy she's there
with searching hands
and scolding.
"Podria haber sido peor"
Apr 25, 2018
Apr 25, 2018 at 7:09 PM UTC
Light train chugging, working to outrun
Over exerting, pulling along your freight
Sand is running out under the diminishing sun
Fastidiously you tug on your enormous weight
Segmented equal in seven hulking proportions
Weaving between sleeping rocky giants
Assertion in your drive gifted from the high heavens
Borne of light your cargo load of tenants
Silver blurred rays glinting back as reply
As you power your way through
Defying seconds, before the last rays should die
Against odds, delivering what is due
Questing to alleviate my inflicted darkness
Spear of brilliance slicing through my mind
Illuminating the farthest and tiniest of crevices
Nook and crannies that willed me blind
Careful manoeuvring to keep your balance
Through scenic views fraught with treachery
Furiously working to keep your cadence
Hopeful of unloading the load you carry
What lies dormant in that cargo of yours?
What sleeps easy within those boxcars?
What stokes the fire to diligently run your course?
What promises you bear, travelling near and far?
Bales of hope and crates of strength
Supplies of kindness and self-worth
Reside within your immense length
Intact and lay quiet within your formidable girth
Reliant on the light that fuels and feeds
Your axles seem tireless guiding forth those wheels
Thundering over land with the power of a thousand steeds
Armed to your teeth with alloys and steels
Expelling grit and dirt as you pummelled across
Grey-white fumes, shoot up to the sky
Flag flogged by wind, billow and toss
Blaring your whistle as you race on by
Propelling forward, horizon up ahead
There it is...in all its tenebrous glory
Darkened locomotive seething mad with dread
Brace for the clash and the loads the two carry
Sep 28, 2014
Sep 28, 2014 at 8:03 AM UTC
I
Stacked green crates by the futon,
records sealed as buried letters,
each sleeve longing
to be drawn out into daylight
by her small, thoughtful hands.
I just want to play that Nick Cave again
teenager’s resolve in her voice,
she drops the needle on "Tupelo",
traces Peter Murphy with her thumb,
holds Kate Bush to the light
like stained glass.
She laughs
at the ****** box on the speaker.
I tell her it’s never going to happen.
She grins, unbothered,
says she only came for the vinyl.
I watch her tilt each sleeve,
never touching the grooves,
brush the dust,
lay the needle like a secret,
slide the disc back without a wrinkle.
Each time I’m surprised
by her precision.
It’s the third time
she’s dropped by.
She makes mixtapes.
Pressing pause,
pressing record,
stitching songs
into a spine of hiss.
Once, to me, or to herself,
she said her father wanted a tape.
She’d mail it when
he had somewhere to send it.
She follows me across the bridge,
talking about her brother,
an ex-best friend,
mimicking her professor,
how he wags his tongue
when he writes on the chalkboard.
I haul a duffel:
apron, uniform, boots heavy with grease.
She skips in the rain,
strumming cables, humming
the last song played, still in the air.
II
I unlock the door,
steeped in garlic and kitchen sweat,
boots leaving grime on the boards.
She isn’t there-
only the crates, stacked neater,
jackets squared, spines aligned,
as if her care was meant for me.
The room settles with her absence,
yet holds me upright
in its small, thoughtful hands.
Sep 17, 2025
Sep 17, 2025 at 8:11 PM UTC
It’s dusk
Lustful grapevines curl around my ankles
And I’m thankful it’s wine season, the pickers should be around shortly to save me
And bathe me in last year’s crop to scare the grape vines into submission
It’s a decision they have to make
Do they care about a perfect stranger enough to waste
Roads of trucks of crates of bottles of red velvet
Or white sunshine
Or do they allow this ensnarement and turn a blind eye whilst I sink
While thinking; pondering the fertility of the soil under my feet
I’ll wait for the pickers, just to see how they view me
And in the meantime the vines are spinning yarns around me
Crawling up my skin, holding me tight while telling me bed time stories
Once upon a time there was a vineyard struck by a drought
Caused by unrelenting calm, and clear blue skies with no clouds
And they resisted, rationed their water between them,
And it seemed then that everything was fine
The crop was harvested and won best wine, but failed to mention how many vines
Died in the making of their own blood
Morbid and dry, a pinot noir fashioned out of pain and scars
And tears in flesh, not human flesh, but the flesh of the landscape
I didn't smile
But it did make me sleepy
I couldn't fight their grasp
Addicted to their emotions
I let them take me down into their fertile ocean
And when the pickers came to discern the source of the screaming
A new grape vine had sprouted and was teething
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 2:19 PM UTC
If cows go moo chickens cluck, therefore if the farmer has eaten chicken eggs, he will cluck,
and if he had a steak dinner, he will clmook...
and yield eggs filled with milk from his ****
This is why eggs are solely a breakfast food,
while steak is a dinner because mixing the two in one meal only makes the effects worse,
turning a Farmer over time into a milk filled egg.
Note only farmers are affected like this,
since it takes very high levels of exposure to beef and eggs in their raw un-processed forms,
which we don't buy at grocery stores for the above reasons...
First the mutagen's proprieties of the two mixed together must be neutralized.
By filling any crates in which beef are shipped with powdered eggs
and crates of eggs with beef made from a special breed of cow that has been genetically bred to lay eggs,
the hooves and horns go to make that strange astronaut ice cream that you see in gift shops.
Each "netrie-cow cost over 10,000,000 yen each (and you can only pay in yen)
but without them entire crops of beef eggs can be lost.
Oh i forgot... these were pure bred eggs and beef that need to be treated...
Beef eggs are a new advancement of science,
they are normal eggs in every sense but that they moo when you shake them if they have gone bad,
and taste slightly like beef and need no special treatment.
The chicks which hatch from beef eggs grow to be feathered cows which mate with everything in sight,
and usually are killed before they have the chance to grow,
but many a farmer has decided the risk of raising chowkins worth their original flavor and taste,
but many employ steel pant plates to prevent accidents
(since for some reason chowkins Can produce offspring in humen males as well as their own kind...)
The process killing the farmer,
and producing a creature which speaks in only an impenetrable deep southern accent and Farmer slang,
loves milk and grass,
and unable to perform any function in society,
but crops grown by such creatures are noticeably better in taste.
Clmook!
Clmook!
Clmook!
Go get your lifetime supply of cheese?
Please?
May 13, 2015
May 13, 2015 at 5:49 AM UTC
Agnes McDuff collected strange stuff,
Or so the story goes:
There were old pots and pans,
String, rubber bands,
Boxes and boxes of clothes,
Newspapers, plates,
Books stored in crates,
And candlesticks lined up in rows.
Some mason jars,
Toy trucks and cars,
A model train with a whistle that blows,
Needles and spools,
All kinds of tools,
And shoes with holes in the toes.
There were tables and chairs,
Bookends in pairs,
A grandfather clock that was broke,
An old brass spittoon,
Some Sunday cartoons,
And a bicycle mssing a spoke.
Four or five hundred old wooden blocks,
Twenty-three pair of grey woolen socks,
A Christmas Edition bottle of Coke,
A board game missing directions,
A bat, a ball, a catcher’s mitt, two baseball card collections,
And a great big rusty tuba. What a joke!
There was other stuff, but you’ve heard enough;
About what was stored in
The Attic of Agnes McDuff.
Part 2
Agnes’ attic was quite special
But not for the things it contained
But for how she had to get there
Please let me explain!
Agnes had a one-story house
A flight of stairs led to the attic.
When she opened up the door,
The light came on automatic.
It opened to a hallway
Where there was another door
Another light, another hall, and more stairs, which
Led back down to the first floor!
Where an elevator waited
To take her up again?
But it had just one button
And it was numbered “10”.
When she pushed it, it was crazy
The elevator turned upon its side,
Grew wheels and drove out on the street
For an amazing ride!
Across a long suspension bridge,
Then underneath a tunnel,
And then it went around and round
Like circling down a funnel!
It dropped upon a railroad track
Hooked onto the caboose
And followed to the roundhouse
Where it finally broke loose.
It turned around a couple times
And ran out toward the street
The elevator ran, of course
Because it had grown two feet!
It ran across an avenue,
Around a lake, and through a park
And then through another tunnel
Where it was very dark.
A mile later it emerged,
At Agnes’ house, by her front door!
The elevator walked inside,
And was on the second floor!!
So that’s how Agnes reached her attic,
Perhaps someday you’ll go there too,
Push the elevator button,
And you’ll find my story’s true!
Part 3
Agnes stood there in her attic
And smiled at all her stuff
That almost ends the story of
The Attic of Agnes McDuff.
But Agnes’ story can never end
Her smile turned to a frown,
Because you see poor Agnes
Forgot how to get back down!!
PwL May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015
May 1, 2015 at 8:17 AM UTC
Bullet and blade
Have ended
Many a friend.
Some were warriors
Living by sword, others
Just unlucky.
No one safe from
Anything. I buy her
Pepperspray instead of
Flowers these days.
Keep leaving
Butterfly knives in the
Pockets of her coats.
I am a man of non-violence,
But one with worlds to lose.
I miss the days when the fight
Ended as ground was hit.
Knuckles and bones were
All we needed; men fencing
For themselves with nothing
But themselves,
And women were there to be
Charmed and fought over. Not
Left torn and terrified
In a ditch, broken beyond repair,
Their men helplessly wielding
Lead and steel at the absence
Of the animal responsible.
I'll buy her flowers today.
Flowers, and walk her home.
Bullet and blade
Have ended
Many a friend.
The weight of their
Tragedies is about the
Same
As that of the crates of ammunition
It takes to keep the world
Safe from the threat of itself.
May 27, 2014
May 27, 2014 at 10:30 AM UTC
In your past, this past
they weren't valued
no one said they were members of the family
what walks on four legs and is furry and cute is only
to last as long as nature intended and then to be disposed of
Veal calves in crates, taken from mothers on the day of their birth
to make more milk for humans, horse slaughter for glue
and foi gras, ducks and geese locked in a vice grip of their cages
metal tubes rammed down their throats and force fed until a liver disease
develops, painful, but given no respite
and served as a delicacy and
fur coats from animals skinned alive right here in America
still when mink farms are outlawed in the Netherlands and
two million dogs and cats skinned in China every year not to mention
other horrors and no one cared or looked their way because they are
only animals, and voiceless and helpless and no one cared to give them
a voice or advocacy
"that's why they're there, for our use, people still say" who profit from an industry
of suffering
And today, there are people who try to give them a voice and there are veterinarians who will try to help you with your member of the family, as he suffers, in his old age
a bag of fluids hangs from my exercise bike, and intermixed with my medications
is the painkiller and anti-nausea pills for my dear old friend
whose pancreas is failing
and father, this is foreign to you
you pretend it is a crime
silence is the only thing connecting us now
I hope you enjoyed your last barrage of unkind words
I think you did. The saddest thing I've learned about people like you
is
you feel better after such an attack, to see me reeling, bleeding on the ground
and you feel better, calmer and purged.
A kind of misbegotten peace settles over you
an exploitive peace from another's tears and pain
And yes, father, there were no agencies to give a voice to children
when you were young
no CPS, to aid my nine year old ***** friend
as a code of silence enveloped her attacker
to protect him, the one who destroyed her
But today there is a small brigade of a modern kind of love
to give a voice, protection, soothing to the ones who can
only suffer at our hands and not protect themselves from
our wrath and exploitation
and it is a better world for that, father
for my furry pancreatic friend and for any other
nine year old **** victims here
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 12:38 PM UTC
We are America.
We are the coffin fillers.
We are the grocers of death.
We pack them in crates like cauliflowers.
The bomb opens like a shoebox.
And the child?
The child is certainly not yawning.
And the woman?
The woman is bathing her heart.
It has been torn out of her
and as a last act
she is rinsing it off in the river.
This is the death market.
America,
where are your credentials?
2.7k
Crates of fruit from names of colors,
Strewn about like our past lovers.
Left alone and peeled apart,
Pulp fills the drain but leaves the heart.
Feb 23, 2012
Feb 23, 2012 at 11:52 PM UTC
Hippos in crates
On rollerskates
Crashing through
the rickety gates.
Crashing and bashing.
Oooooooooooh, how Smashing!
Rolling about
Their teeth a-flashing!
Running amuck!
Watch out for the duck.
Open the doors!
Back up the truck!
Zipping up the ramp
Like any old champ.
There they go!
Don't forget the stamp.
Crates in the mail!
Delivered without fail.
Those Hippos on skates
Lurching down the trail.
Oct 27, 2010
Oct 27, 2010 at 3:27 PM UTC
A shed, six by four, painted,
Landy green, black roof
Local fishmongers
Down by the harbor gates
Battered wooden, fish crates
Smelling of the ocean, the waves,
The spray
Weathered, worn, faded brown
Trawlers name a disappearing outline
A boy in shorts, blond hair
Tugging at his mother’s skirts
Pointing,
Spattered orange dotted flat fish
Flapping, fresh from the boat.
Propped against the side wall
A box of jade, and emerald sea jewels
Eyes frozen in time.
Chalk board hung from open door,
With names, prices , beyond understanding.
To the boy fantastical creatures
A man in a white coat, money rattling in pocket
Scales set on a bench, ready to measure out scales
For the women of the seaside town
All the gossip, the fish, and the stories
From one little shed down by the harbor wall
A boys face mesmerized, by cod
Larger than he, caught on a wall hook
Swift knife movements, and fillets,
Laid on yesterdays newspaper
Bones, and head thrown into a bucket
Large lazy yellow eyed seagull,
Sauntering like a casual thief, eye
On the bucket…
Feb 17, 2015
Feb 17, 2015 at 6:05 PM UTC
So, our hero of tha day waz DJ Herc
He b driven’ lil Mizz Dazze ‘round, in a pimped out Merc
Queensbridge waz tha birthplace of Hip-Hop
Red alert, it just won’t stop
It will hurt uz a bit
No more than a **** wid a hit
Wee all thank Merc 4 puttin’ on dat show
Smokin’ sum **** n angel dust, wid sum real blow
A bro named, Coke LA Rock, waz also a financier friend of mine
Handin’ out goodies 2 tha children in-line, all tha time
Nickel bag half n ounce, quarter pound pow, now wee poppin’
Az long az tha music izn’t stoppin’ and tha rocks r still droppin’
If champagne waz still a flowin’, then tha freaks wood b steppin’ in line
Hotel, Motel, u don’t tell, wee don’t tell, one-time root 9
There’s notta man dat can’t b thrown, a horse dat can’t b rode
A bull dat can’t b stopped, a disco dat can’t b rocked, can u decode
Were u @ dat famous house party, thee dope
Spinnin’ tha holy crates of hip-hop, wee hope
A1 B-boy from every known neighborhood, wid a scent
From JC, Tony D’, Sweet n Sour, 2 super DJ ‘Fcukin’ Clark Kent
Sellin’ nickel bags of cannabis, 2 miss layD hoes to mi crew
Made mi coin roll into notes, helping outta few dat I knew
Hip-Hop waz made 4 peace, love, unity n fun
Still b countin’ mi riches, retired n still layin’ in tha hot sun
Apr 8, 2020
Apr 8, 2020 at 1:50 AM UTC
The numbing light dims to black,
Car lights replace the dark and you tremble.
Like rose petals in the wind,
You waver and eventually collapse to the pavement.
The pavement is your destiny and future though.
Crates too massive to lift surround you like a canyon,
Vanishing those blazing car lights from your eyes
You take in everything like a breath of icy air,
Brief and crucial.
The hollow note echoes to stillness,
Infectious beats take their place and you sway.
Like a cottontail in the summer breeze,
You lean from side to side, finally standing tall.
And the standing transforms into your grip on life
Ships swerve towards you like starving crocodile,
Blocking out that deep bass.
You tread carefully like a waterlily a top a pond,
Almost imaginary but real at the same time.
Your bones rattle around inside your thinning skin,
The light shocks and shakes you
And the car lights reappear, taking center stage
Like the moon in the sky..
You shiver and spin around,
All that you see is your future.
Mar 9, 2013
Mar 9, 2013 at 12:13 AM UTC
Phone calls were made, meetings were held and the new group was set to get started
There was lots to be learned and so little time for the lessons to all be imparted
The plan was immense, it was larger this time and the time was going by fast
They would all act as one, getting everything done and their goal was to not finish last
It was done every year, in the schools through the town, it was something the kids all enjoyed
But this year was tough, with all the closings and stuff and the fact there was more unemployed
Each school was set up to blitz through the town and to collect all the food that they can
But with more on the list and those who would surely be missed were the ones who set last years plan
Team leaders were picked in each group at the school, and their job was to get this all done
And to beat last years tote by at least one more pound and to make sure that it was all fun
Pep rally's were held to get the students involved and help motivate those involved
But with more needing help and less firms out to help, they had problems they had to get solved
On December the first, the kids all set out ringing bells in the malls and the stores
From there they would go with buses and trucks and collect food by knocking on doors
The school who did best bringing in the most pounds would be win a cup and awards
But to all those concerned, they had to get out and blanket the town in great hoards
People backed out from tasks all assigned, It was cold and they had too much to do
There was homework as well, and jobs on the side and alot wouldn't see the task through
But they all persevered and the food all came in, cans and boxes and crates and in bags
There was food left at school from donators unknown, just good wishes all written on tags
The goal was to raise an amount more than last and to do it in twenty two days
The total to date was behind just a bit but there was still time to make this year pay
So with one last great push the students went out and they held one last drive at the mall
If they collect one more ton, then all would be done and they could all know they answered the call
On Christmas Eve morn the principals met and they said they had all reached their goals
They shook all their hands and they stuck out their chests for they knew that they'd fulfilled their roles
The students were told at assemblies too, and the food was dropped off through the town
They had beat last years numbers by about fifty pounds even though they all thought they'd be down
So for all those they helped for the one day that month, where they had Christmas dinner and laughter
Was brought back to earth by one voice in one school, who asked "What would these families eat the day after?"
.
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 11:09 AM UTC
This wild night, gathering the washing as if it were flowers
animal vines twisting over the line and
slapping my face lightly, soundless merriment
in the gesticulations of shirtsleeves,
I recall out of my joy a night of misery
walking in the dark and the wind over broken earth,
halfmade foundations and unfinished
drainage trenches and the spaced-out
circles of glaring light
marking streets that were to be
walking with you but so far from you,
and now alone in October's
first decision towards winter, so close to you--
my arms full of playful rebellious linen, a freighter
going down-river two blocks away, outward bound,
the green wolf-eyes of the Harborside Terminal
glittering on the Jersey shore,
and a train somewhere under ground bringing you towards me
to our new living-place from which we can see
a river and its traffic (the Hudson and the
hidden river, who can say which it is we see, we see
something of both. Or who can say
the crippled broom-vendor yesterday, who passed
just as we needed a new broom, was not
one of the Hidden Ones?)
Crates of fruit are unloading
across the street on the cobbles,
and a brazier flaring
to warm the men and burn trash. He wished us
luck when we bought the broom. But not luck
brought us here. By design
clean air and cold wind polish
the river lights, by design
we are to live now in a new place.
2.1k
A boat
A boat sails
A boat sails in
A boat sails in slowly
A boat sails in slowly to the docks
A boat sails crates full of bananas
A boat sails crates full
A boat sails crates
A boat sails
A boat
The dock
The dock fills
The dock fills up
The dock fills up quickly
The dock fills up quickly with boats
A sailor eats oranges whole for fun
A sailor eats oranges whole
A sailor eats oranges
A sailor eats
A sailor
Jun 3, 2016
Jun 3, 2016 at 5:28 PM UTC
"The tallest poplar I'll grow to be,"
said the young tree.
"Standing above the rest,
I'll be crowned the best.
Fortified and grown,
the forest will be mine to rule alone."
Ripped from the roots,
and cut down by a man in boots,
the dreams quickly faded.
"There's not much to make of me now"
Thought the tree,
whose complexion quickly changed
from wide-eyed to jaded.
Hauled onto a truck
Off he went.
To the lumberyard,
the young tree was sent.
Chopped to pieces,
stripped of his bark.
Our young poplar was afraid his life,
would never leave a mark.
"Some wooden crates they'll make of me"
"The peaks of the other trees I'll never see"
"I'm useless, I'm broken"
"In the forest my name will never be spoken"
The story doesn't end though,
it's only just begun.
For the life of this tree,
is one that's not yet done.
The lumber was chopped, cut, and carried.
To a town of a man named Jack,
who was poor but newly married.
"I've got little money, but I make good shoes"
"I've got to take care of my wife, I've nothing left to lose"
"I'll open a store, and become a cobbler"
"And with the money I make, I'll buy my family something proper."
So Jack took his life savings.
And off he went, to open a store,
To make enough money to pay the rent.
Our poplar was still together,
chopped into many pieces.
Next to some hardware supplies,
and a vendor selling fleeces.
"I'll take that lumber, it'll do the job."
"Just take my money, and I'll be along"
Years passed by as Jack labored hard.
A few kids came along, a house, and a fenced in yard.
One day a special man came to town.
Not the type of man that you see every day,
for this man wore a royal crown.
"Wooden clogs I need for my feet"
"To keep them dry as I walk along the damp street"
A chance to make shoes for a king,
this was enough to make Jack sing.
He looked through his supplies,
they weren't enough.
To build shoes fit for a king,
would be quite tough.
"I have just the wood, "
he thought to himself.
"From when I first built my shop,
there is some left on the top shelf.
So he took the remaining scraps,
and he made new shoes.
Shoes for royalty,
clogs fit for a man more special than me.
And now our poplar finally got his chance.
To join in the royal dance.
And on the king's feet he stays.
Helping him rule the land for the rest of his days.
So, if you find yourself cut down before you grow.
Just remember, and make sure you know.
Your chance will come, sooner or later.
To become a part of something greater.
Mar 4, 2018
Mar 4, 2018 at 7:49 PM UTC
Man enters the tavern
Claps down some cash and outbursts ;
'Thirsty Things Firstly !'
The barman evaluates his condition
And provides a session brew
Man tilts toward potential company
(a ferrety bloke in the shadows)
"Pull up that stack of milk crates
And halve a heart with me"
(he earns a quick friend
in a tolerant stranger)
Soon fellow gaspers fill out the gloom
And an eve of humour descends
Though soon upending
Gourds downed the gullet
Sunk ugly into the scene
The tippling wit drags the night
to the Slurry Pit
things turn Psychologically Rugged
his Mates soon round on him
bulldozing at the Elbows
saying he's a Cheapskate
they Berate him with rigorous Rattleprat
he's been goated with the Cain's mark
they tousle his crown malicious
Thorough in his cups and eaves
he mumbles and leaves
heaving up bile words
unheard
gurgle
over
his
shoulder
outside is dark and harsh
Outside the whole wild world does wail and weary
drunkenly
he sings to match its melancholy
but sadness lifts with his altered view
he sees 'a flock of moons' weigh down the sky
and natures churn
makes a phosphorescent stew of it all
... decay
to lifes' celebration
Jun 27, 2022
Jun 27, 2022 at 9:04 PM UTC
Yo I got skillz by the millions
With tons of ammunition
Who fuckin' with the commission my mission
Is to control the rap game blow fish tactics
From ******* who **** quick my **** stick
Slick leave em with one eye patch cookin' up another batch
Can ya catch
The madness of real ***** with multiple figures money surpassin' the aurora
Hardcorer grim explorer non could ignore tha
Deadly pedigrees sheddin so beautifully
Im feelin' like Mango Slade cuts through like a blade
Lyrics colder than the words from Chuckie
Coastin' spells I do it well it ain't hard to tell
While ya souls fail another body destined to hell
It's Yosef ninth gate chillin' over ya crates
Like a demon intervention got ya nerves
Penchin' and itchin' soon to be twitchin' and inchin'
My every move I'm takin' ove the earthly ground
Bow down what's that it's the Southside
Breakin' em down so ya bound to drown
My armed men stack men from the guns
That back bend to the roads ya
End
No longer boys to men to deaths I comprehend
Takin' on deadly sins seven to chose from
I'm makin' chaos from USA to the New Jerusalem
And who's dumb? Enough to **** with me
While I'm on my Crazy *** leavin' ya stunned
And outdunned and who can
Come?
Against my magnificence layin' hellish scents
In the forms of an emodiment
Who could stop it
Since adversaries are culprit let the snakes
Shake and take away these painful memories
Yeah I'm dreadin' ya head missin' the feds
*** I got more bread than Pillsbury dough
So quick with the skills and I
Know
Suckas don't wanna go toe to
Toe
**** mics worse than Exodus who can plex with us
The coldest strong as a swingin' boulders
Knockin' ya head off ya shoulders I thought I told ya
Southside stay running with hidden
Soldiers
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 7:00 AM UTC
The milk man died last week. I didn't
know him well, just enough to know his favorite
chew and how much he hated Fritos.
I knew his lover and her worn-out
windbreaker, her frizzled hair as gold
as her Marlboros. I sold her a pack of silvers
once and she nearly snapped my neck.
They take (took?) their tobacco dead
seriously. She hasn't come back
to work yet, though her five allotted
days of grief are over. The empty
milk crates just aren't empty anymore.
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 9:44 PM UTC
"236 miles into the Atlantic.." the captain crackles,
I find the foils of snow and sand here,
dust and ridges etched ashore on Andes
mountain tops and the way
the wind seduces the elements to dance only
for her to laugh and slap down.
The escargot and garlic alligator
shift, below in crates. The drunken
feet stumble to the jazz of the
ocean and the timbre of the coconut ***
on their way to the formal dinner promised
in this passage of escape. They saunter
but the ocean's sighs harmonize with her laughter.
"At night the opal blue sinks beneath black
but," she says, "I still see the jovial mist's blue dance."
So we toast with Shiraz and join the drunken
music with our drunken neighbors, souls drunk
and eyes feasting on oil candles and neon CARNIVAL
shot glasses that aid us, the broke, to run harder
into the night and away from the damnation of land.
I, you all, know that is what this is,
what vacations, rest, water, Advil, sunscreen
all promise and whisper and ****** until
they force your feet to dance so they
can laugh as they slap you down ashore,
awake, thirsty, throbbing, burnt into the reality
you left for the past five glorious days.
Ah, and glory- you see?
The majesty of the waves and allure
of purple and green fade when compared,
remember? Nature is symmetry and
the depravity of pain pales in comparison
to the glory of salvation. Look to the sea,
see where Christ walked.
Apr 25, 2013
Apr 25, 2013 at 10:51 PM UTC
the compensation for my competence?
a can of Coors occasionally crowned
with sticky notes instruction-filled and dense,
with worn old shoe string thick and tightly bound,
a brief hurrah before a list to do,
if time were air, with duty i'd turn blue,
a present given as a false pretense,
his recompense? a crushed Coors can atop
the boss' desk, a drop spilled on the wood,
a single sticky note stuck to the drop,
"your list of things to do, i could, I should...
yet reach up to that single book, top shelf!"
("Learn How to Fix Your Life--Do It Yourself!")
soon management will purge all its dead wood,
and driftwood i will be among the planks,
and crates expelled above board for to stay
afloat, the company in all its ranks,
will learn that without wood the boat will stray
not only from its sure intended course,
but from the surface to the floor of course,
to join the tiger shark and manta ray,
soon supervisors, managers and such
will join department heads, vice presidents,
chief officers valued, appraised worth much,
thrown overboard to chase those dividends,
that sink so silently to ocean floor,
where there exists no air lock's safety door,
when futures join the pasts through these presents,
my recompense for knowing when to quit?
a can of Coors occasionally crowned
with smiling lips and laughing breath of wit,
my happy feet in new shoes leather-bound,
a new ship where appreciation rings
the ship bells of respect on many things,
smooth sailing through safe seas without a ground.
(C)2012, Christos Rigakos
Jul 11, 2012
Jul 11, 2012 at 8:25 PM UTC
By: Cedric McClester
Bitter or better
It’s my choice you see
I’ve been bitter so long
But where’d that get me
It didn’t make me happy
I have to confess
So I’m trying to be better
I’m doing my best
Bitter or better
Is a matter of choice
And I’ve made mine
So I’m raising my voice
Bitter always left me
With eyes that were moist
So I’m opting for better
As an alternate choice
Bitter or better
Take it from me
You can choose which one
You wanna be
Maybe you can’t forget
But can you forgive
Because being bitter
Just ain’t no way to live
Bitter or better
Is a matter of choice
And I’ve made mine
So I’m raising my voice
Bitter always left me
With eyes that were moist
So I’m opting for better
As an alternate choice
Bitter or better
Are alternate states
Bitter can have you carrying weights
Better wins hands down in debates
And it doesn’t require as many crates
Bitter or better
Is a matter of choice
And I’ve made mine
So I’m raising my voice
Bitter always left me
With eyes that were moist
So I’m opting for better
As an alternate choice
Bitter or better
As the case might be
Which one do you choose
You know about me
It’s your decision
So which it will be
Is it gonna be the devil
Or the deep blue sea
Bitter or better
Is a matter of choice
And I’ve made mine
So I’m raising my voice
Bitter always left me
With eyes that were moist
So I’m opting for better
As an alternate choice
Cedric McClester, Copyright (c) 2016. All rights reserved.
Nov 19, 2016
Nov 19, 2016 at 6:05 AM UTC